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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS, 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



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BOOK OF DIALOGUES. 



No. 1. 



BV y 

REV A. J. DAVIS, 

AUTHOR OF " RESCUE THE DRUNKARD," AND OTHER DIALOGUES. 





NEW YORK: 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House, 

No. 58 Reade Street. 

1886. 






Copyright, 1886, by 
The National Temperance Society and Publication House. 



edward o. jenkins sons, 

Printers and Stereotypers, 

20 North, William Street^ New York. 



PREFATORY NOTE. 



There are many calls for good dialogues for use for Tem- 
perance Organizations, Bands of Hope, in the school -room, 
and for entertainments in various public gatherings. 

The National Temperance Society published not long since, 
a small work, entitled " Rescue the Drunkard, and other Dia- 
logues," by Rev. J. A. Davis. It has been well received, and 
had a large sale. We now send out this larger volume of 
Dialogues by the same author, believing that it will meet the 
wants of many Societies and Public Gatherings, furnishing 
wholesome and instructive entertainment. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

An Irishman's View of the Census, .... 37 

Calling a Pastor, 5° 

Coloring with Whiskey, 64 

Gaining Pleasure from Others' Pain, ... 83 

Getting Signers for a License, 42 

Going to Church, 98 

Johnnie and the Sunday-school Superintendent, 39 

Looking for Santa Claus, 7 

Making Calls, 87 

Marrying a Daughter, 106 

Playing Saloon, 73 

Pleading with a Saloon-Keeper, .... 91 

Pretending, , 45 

Riches in Heaven, 71 

Signing Away His Liberty, 26 

Starting a Saloon, 18 

The Dead Kitten, 95 

The Speakers, 23 

The Stolen Knife, 61 

They Loved After All, ...... 30 

What Some Do in Church, 33 

Who is Green ? 101 

Why She Was an Old Maid 12 

Women's Views on the Panic, 67 

* 

Young Men's Calls, 115 

(5) 



BOOK OF DIALOGUES, No. 1. 



LOOKING FOR SANTA CLAUS. 

Characters: John, Everett, Willie, Annie, Georgie, 
Mary, and Santa Claus. 

John. To-morrow is Christmas ; then hurrah for presents 
and fun ! What do you all think Santa Claus will bring ? 

Everett. We don't get presents at our house. Santa Claus 
don't come. 

Annie. What ! Don't he come ? I thought that he came 
wherever there are children. 

Georgie. He don't come to our house either. Father says 
we are too poor. 

Willie. Santa Claus has stopped coming to our house 
since mamma died. He used to come every year ; and then 
we had such fun. Each "one tried to get up the earliest to 
see what presents we had. 

Mary. I don't care much about Santa Claus. My papa is 
good enough Santa Claus for me when he don't drink. He 
gives all of us lots of presents w r hen he stays sober a long 
time. But he is not sober half as much as he used to be 
since the new saloon was opened near us. I wish that the 
saloon-keepers would not sell beer to men who have little 
children at home. If they knew how much we lose they 
would not sell to my papa. 

A. I guess that saloon-keepers don't think much about 
children anyway, unless it is to fill their pails with beer. 

J. I've just thought of something: let us all go out to- 
night and look for Santa Claus. If we see him, then let's ask 
him to come to our homes. 

(7) 



8 Looking for Santa Claus. 

W. How can we ? He don't come till midnight. 

J. He must start long before that, or how could he get 
around ? I'd just like to see him. Our folks say there is no 
Santa Claus, but I believe there is ; story-books tell about him. 

E. I'll go with you, John. 

W. So will I. Let us all go after exhibition to-night ; you 
girls can go then, too. We can hurry out ; and as soon as we 
have found and asked him, we will all hurry home. It will 
not take long. Will you go, girls ? 

Girls. Yes ; we'll go, too. {All go out.) 

Santa Claus {dressed according to taste, entering from the 
side opposite to that taken by the children, and looking at him- 
self). I think that will do. If people don't take me for old 
St. Nicholas they will hardly take me for myself. My sister 
wishes me to go to her house to distribute the presents to 
the children; and here, dressed as their patron saint, I am 
ready to do my part towards making the youngsters happy. 
Blessings on them ; I have not forgotten when I was a boy. 
{Children entering.) Hello ! What are those children out so 
late for ? 

J. {seeing Santa Claus). Oh ! there he is. That's Santa 
Claus ! I told mother there was one. Don't be afraid of 
him, girls ; he won't hurt you. Come on, let us talk to him. 
{To Santa Claus.) Mr. Santa Claus, we've come to ask a 
favor of you. None of us have ever had a chance before. 
You are always good and kind, but for the last year or two 
you forgot where some of us lived, and we want to ask if you 
will please come this year to see us all. 

f E. Does God send you out on Christmas, Mr. Santa Claus? 
For if He does, I wonder how He came to forget our house. 
God knows all about us ; mother used to tell Him every day 
before she went to Heaven. 

A. Are you one of God's angels, Mr. Santa Claus ? Do all 
angels look like you ? I thought that they all were white and 
had wings ? 

S. C. {aside). I am in a fix now. What shall I say? {To 



Looking for Sara a C 7 aus. 9 

Annie.) No, I am not an angel ; but I am one of God's ser- 
vants trying to work for Him. 

G. Then you know God ? Have you ever seen Hi m ? 

S. C. No ; but I hope to some day. I hope that I do know 
and love Him. 

M. Does He love children as Jesus does ? Does He ever 
forget them? We have prayed to Him at our house very 
often ; but it seems that our prayers are not answered, and 
we thought maybe God don't always hear children ; and that 
He has so much to do with big folks that He can't attend 
to us. 

S. C. God never forgets children, and He is glad to have 
them pray to Him. He loves and wishes to do good to all 
of them. 

W. Mr. Santa Claus, you say that God never forgets, that 
He loves children and is glad to have them pray ; you say 
that you are His servant working for Him ; then did you for- 
get us? We asked God many times to send Santa Claus to 
our house, but he has not come. Does God like to have you 
forget children ? 

S. C. {aside). What next, I wonder? But it is deserved; 
I only cared for those I knew and loved. {To Willie.) No, 
God does not like it. He did not forget, but I did ; and I 
think that He sent me out to-night to find you. Tell me 
where each of you live, and I will see that you all have nice 
presents to-morrow ; it will* be too late to take them to-night. 

J. You know 7 where I live, 154 Bay Street ; you come there 
every Christmas ; so you go to Annie's home, 83 Bay Street ; 
but you have forgotten that Willie has moved from Bay 
Street to 24 Brown Street ; and Mary lives in 13 Brown Street ; 
and Georgie lives in the same house, only on the second 
floor; Everett lives with his uncle, Mr. Smith, now at 19 Rove 
Lane. 

S. C. Very well ; 111 see that each of you has something 
nice to-morrow. What would you like to have? Tell me, 
and if it be possible you shall have it. 



io Looking for Santa Claus. 

E. There are so many things I want that I can't tell which 
I need most. A sled ; a pair of skates ; a fur-cap, with ear- 
laps for cold weather — oh, bring anything good for a boy ; it 
will be just the thing for me, if it only comes from God, and 
He sends Santa Claus to bring it. 

G. Will you give us anything we want ? 

S. C. Yes, anything I can get. 

G. Then I would like a doll that goes to sleep when it lies 
down ; and oh, Mr. Santa Claus, please, will God let you bring 
from Heaven a darling little brother like the one the angels 
took away last summer ? 

S. C. The doll you shall have, but I fear that God will not 
trust me to give children away; I could not carry them in 
cold weather. 

M. You may bring me anything you please, Mr. Santa 
Claus ; but if you can do one thing, it will be better than all 
the presents you can carry. My papa drinks ; will you come 
and ask him not to drink any more ? And will you, oh, will 
you, please ask God to take the saloons away ? If there were 
none of them my papa would not want to drink. He is so 
good and kind when he is sober. 

S. C. {aside). There it is again. What will not these chil- 
dren make me do? {To Mary.) Yes, little girl, I will try to 
help your father give up drink, and will try to help remove 
the liquor-saloons, too. 

W. Mr. Santa Claus, I have not asked for anything be- 
cause I know that yOu will bring just what we want, as you 
used to do when mother was alive. But there is something 
that I wish you would do when you go Heaven and tell God 
what you did this Christmas : please find my mother, and tell 
her that I don't forget to pray every day. Ask her, please 
won't you, to ask Jesus to prepare a place for me there, too ; 
for I mean to come. 

J. Mr. Santa Claus, there is one thing I wish you could 
give a boy — and that is something to keep him from getting 
mad every time that something bothers. 



Looking for Santa Claus. 1 1 

A. If you can do that, maybe you can help girls to be 
humble. Mamma says that I am very proud ; but I don't want 
to be. 

S. C. I am afraid that Santa Claus cannot do much to help 
you live better ; but he can and will pray God to help you. 
You must pray Him to keep anger and pride and every evil 
out of your hearts, and then you must try to help God do 
what you ask, But it is late and time for me to go about my 
work, and for little folks to be in bed. I'll see that you get 
your presents to-morrow ; so good-night. 

Ail. Good-night, Mr. Santa Claus. 

M. Please don't forget to talk to my papa, and please do 
not forget to tell God about the saloons. 

W. And don't forget to tell my mother. {All but Santa 
Claus leaved) 

S. C. Well, I'm in for work, that is certain. Little did I 
think what a job I would get on my hands by this dress ; nor 
am I sorry either. Let me see, did I deceive those little 
things ? I would not deceive a child if I could help it. No, 
I did not undeceive them, though ; but if it was not the strict 
truth that I am God's servant and trying to work for Him, it 
shall be the truth after this. It is a shame that I have lived 
so long to make only those whom I know and love happy. 
Here I, an old bachelor without chick or child, with plenty 
of time and enough mone}'', too, have been taking the good 
of life, while ever so many of such children have been sad 
and suffering, when I could have made them as happy as 
they could ask, and myself all the happier by giving them a 
present now and then. But I have learned a lesson, and once 
learning is enough. To-morrow some sad faces shall smile 
if I live. What selfish fellows we bachelors are. It would 
be no more than just if we were compelled to marry regular 
vixens of wives. I hope that my punishment will not come 
that way. Let me see, there will be the presents to get ; that, 
will not be so bad. But that promise to see about the drunken 
father. Unless I mistake, that was Sam Wornley's child. 



12 Why She Was an Old Maid. 

Sam was my old chum years ago, and here I have let him 
start off on the downhill road and never so much as reached 
out a finger to stop him. Well, Christmas — one week yet of 
the old year — is a good time to begin ; and I mean to begin. 
It is not enough that I am sober and happy ; I must try to 
make others so. From to-night I begin, so help me that 
power in which I trust ; and in that divine strength I shall 
begin to live, not that I only may be saved, but that all whom 
I can influence may be saved and happy. 



WHY SHE WAS AN OLD MAID. 

Characters: Annie, Hattie, Mary, and Aunt Mattie. 

Annie. I think it strange that we cannot offer wine to our 
gentlemen callers on New-Year's day. 

Hattie. Papa has forbidden it, and there the matter must 
end. What he says is law in this house. 

Mary. But why should your father be so strict ? I believe 
in Temperance principles too; yet every one who pretends 
to be anything has wine for callers on New- Year, even though 
it is never seen in the house again for the rest of the year. 

A. Had I known that we must receive callers in such a 
dry way I would not have come here to receive. Let us all 
try to persuade your father, Hattie, and see if he will not for 
once allow us to offer wine. 

H. It will be useless ; papa will not listen, and I would be 
sorry if he did. I don't believe in treating young men to 
wine even on such occasions. I wish you girls could have 
heard what our minister said about it a week or two ago. 

M. There it is again, Cousin Hattie ; you are always talk- 
ing about your minister, as if he were the only good one in 



Why She Was an Old Maid. 13 

the world. But I don't see why we cannot offer wine for just 
this once. How will it look, and what will the young men 
think ? 

H. How would it look to have young men drinking and 
becoming drunk on the wine we offered? What would they 
think of us after they became sober ? But let it appear to 
them as it will, I Avill not be one to offer any young man wine. 
They have enough temptations without their lady friends 
adding to those trials. A young man who thinks less of me 
because 1 offer him no wine is a man whose company I am 
not anxious to have. 

A. Hattie, you are fearfully straight-laced. You ought to 
have lived in the days of the Puritans, or should now join 
the Quakers. There is no danger that any young men for 
whom we care will take too much wine. Wine is not so dan- 
gerous. It cheers and enlivens, and helps pass the time when 
we have tedious or dull callers. 

H. Yes, it does cheer and enliven ; you would have 
thought so a few evenings since had you seen a lot of college 
students. They had taken enough wine to make them cheer- 
ful. Some of them were peculiarly lively ; they were singing 
songs, and hugging lamp-posts, and acting as if they were 
more than cheerful ; we called it drunk. They acted so 
sadly-cheerful that those who saw them could hardly help 
saying that they were fools. I would have been ashamed 
had any of them called on me, to think that I had helped 
make them expose themselves in that way. 

M. Oh, Cousin Hattie, you carry matters to extremes. If 
they were drunk that is no reason why our callers should be. 
But here comes Aunt Mattie. (Enter Aunt Mattie.) I will 
ask her to talk to your father. 

H. Yes, you may, and if she agrees with you I think papa 
will. 

M. Aunt Mattie, we, that is Annie and I, want you to 
help us against Cousin Hattie and Uncle Warren. We want 
to have wine to offer our callers to-morrow, and Hattie op- 



14 Why She Was an Old Maid. 

poses it, and her father, she says, has forbidden it. Will you 
please speak to him about it ? 

Aunt Mattie. I am willing to speak to your uncle about 
it, but not to advise it. It would be useless to ask him to go 
against his principles ; but if it were not, I am the last one to 
advocate treating young men to wine. 

A. Why, Aunt Mattie ? Are you opposed to wine too ? 
But I don't mean that I favor it ; I hate the stuff, only it 
seems so odd to offer none to New- Year's callers. People 
will talk about us. 

Aunt M. Their talk will soon cease ; but if you should be 
the means of tempting one young man to drink so that he 
acquired a habit of drinking, you would start a talk that 
would not cease at all. No, girls, do not think of treating 
young men to wine or anything else that can intoxicate. 
Oh, have nothing to do with the dangerous drink. It ruins ! 

M. Why, Aunt Mattie, are you so opposed to wine ? 

Aunt M. Yes, I am opposed to it, and for a good reason. 
I have seen its evil doings. 

M. Oh, we all see the evil of drinking strong drink, but 
there is a great difference between offering wine once a year 
and having men drink liquor constantly. 

Aunt M. It was the drink of wine once a year, as you 
might say, that made me hate it, and that taught me its evil. 

A. Will you please tell us, Auntie ? You have never said 
anything about it to us, have you ? 

Aunt M. I have never spoken about it to any of my nephews 
or nieces, though my brothers and sisters know about it. It 
is so sad that I never feel like speaking of it ; and besides, it 
is the story of the saddest part of my life. But if it be the 
means of teaching you girls a lesson, I will tell it willingly. 

M. Auntie, has it anything to do with your never being 
married ? Mamma told us that you had a good reason for 
remaining "single, but she would not tell any more. I have 
always wanted to hear. 

Aunt M. Yes, it has ; and that is the sad part of the story. 



Why She Was an Old Maid. 15 

I may as well tell you alj without any reserve ; it may help 
you in any time of similar trial. 

Many years ago, when I was young like you girls, a young 
man named Arthur Brandow called at my father's house, and 
I was introduced to him. From the first I liked him ; he was 
not a remarkable man, perhaps, but he did seem one to me. 
He was noble and frank, and as generous as one could wish. 
Business with my father called him to our home several 
times ; from coming on business he came on errands of pleas- 
ure. But I need not tell that part of the story ; sufficient is 
it to say, that in time we were engaged to be married, with the 
full approval of his and my parents. The time for our wed- 
ding was set for the twenty-second of February^on Washing- 
ton's birthday, also the birthday of my father and of the 
man I was to marry. 

A. Auntie, was Arthur Brandow any relative of William 
Brandow who lives near Monckton ? 

Aunt M. Yes, he was a brother. But I will go on with 
my story. On New-Year's day before our wedding, I was re- 
ceiving calls with two young lady friends, and we had wine to 
offer callers. It was agreed between Arthur and myself that 
I should receive as I had done in former years, though it was 
known that we were to be married. My friends wished me 
to receive with them at my father's. We thought then, as 
you girls do, that wine was not only proper, but necessary to 
properly entertain our guests, so wine was not absent. Ar- 
thur had arranged with two young friends who were paying 
attentions to the two ladies receiving with me, that they 
should be the last to call, and then would stay later. The 
three came, and after all other callers had gone, they stayed. 
The two young men were to be groomsmen, and the young 
ladies with me bridesmaids at our approaching wedding. 

M. That was when groomsmen were fashionable, instead 
of as now, the best man or men. But excuse me, Auntie. 

Aunt M. The conversation turned to the approaching 
wedding, and the two young men insisted on drinking Ar- 



1 6 Why She Was an Old Maid, 

thur's health, and to the happiness of his married life. He 
tried to excuse himself from drinking, and said that it was 
not his custom to drink wine ; but they urged and said that 
at such a time he could not refuse. Fie declined, saying that 
he had not touched a glass of wine for years, and did not 
care to begin then. The other ladies urged him to drink, 
and said that they would take a glass with him. He hesitated ; 
and they asked me to urge him. To me, wine was harmless, 
and I often had taken a glass ; so I urged him to drink. " If 
you say so, Mattie," said he, " I will take a glass or two or 
more, though I don't want to drink." I took a glass, so did 
the other ladies, with the three gentlemen. Then, after he 
had been persuaded to take one, his friends insisted that 
Arthur should pledge each of them in a glass of wine as they 
drank to the happiness of his new year. The rest of the story 
I would rather leave untold. 

M. O, Auntie, you must not stop there. Why did you 
not marry Arthur? What became of him ? Did not he come 
back after that ? Did he take to drinking after that night ? 

Aunt M. No, he never drank another glass of wine after 
that night ; but he never came back to me. I will go to him 
some day. 

A. Auntie, what do you mean ? What became of him ? 

Aunt M. Yes, girls, I will tell the rest. Arthur drove a 
spirited team of horses ; he lived several miles from my 
father's ; he brought one of the young men with him, and the 
other had a horse and sleigh of his own with which he came. 
For two miles they took the same road, when they returned 
to their homes ; and the young man who was alone tried to 
drive past Arthur's team. Though not a drinking man, he 
had taken too much wine while out calling, and he was not 
as careful as he might have been. Arthur's horses started as 
the other drove alongside, and at once began a trial of speed. 
Where there was room all went well, but the road led to a 
narrow place alongside of a steep decline. Arthur was on 
the outside. Perhaps the wine made his hands unsteady, 



Why She Was an Old Maid. 17 

perhaps had affected his brain. I cannot tell all : but Arthur's 
sleigh went over the edge of the road. His companion sprang 
out and was unharmed. The sleigh, horses, and driver were 
flung down the steepest place, and Arthur was fatally hurt. 
They sent for me. I went to his home and watched by him ; 
but he was unconscious. For a day and a half he remained 
unconscious ; but, towards evening of the second day he 
opened his eyes and saw me. I need not tell all that he said. 
He knew that he must die. He was ready, for he was a 
Christian. Before he died he said to me, " Mattie, it is all 
right ; but, oh ! it is hard to leave life in its brightest hours ; 
yet that is not the worst. I must leave it because of wine- 
drinking. Had not William taken so much wine he would 
not have driven as he did. And had I not touched wine my 
hands would have been steady and my brain clear." Then, 
looking me straight in the eye, he said, " Mattie, don't ever 
ask a young man to take a glass of wine. It may cloud his 
brain and unsteady his hand for a time of danger." He died. 

M. Is that the reason, Aunt Mattie, that you never mar- 
ried ? 

Aunt M. Yes, child ; I felt that I had helped to send into 
eternity the only man I have ever loved, and I could marry 
no other. I asked and received his pardon ; I know he for- 
gave me. Nor did he blame me half as much as he did him- 
self for listening to the urging of others. Yet I know that 
had I said one word to prevent his drinking, he would not 
have touched the wine. Now, girls, you have the story of 
my life. You know now why I am an old maid. You know, 
too, why I am opposed to offering wine to any one. 

M. Aunt Mattie, I would do as you have done. I would 
not have anything to do with wine either. I never saw its 
danger as I do now. I am glad that uncle will not have wine 
offered to callers. He, too, knows its danger. 

H. Aunt Mattie, why have you not told us before ? You 
might save others your sorrow by telling of it. I don't be- 
lieve that I would ever tempt any young man to drink, be- 
2 



1 8 Starting a Saloon, 

cause I have been taught the evil of wine and strong drink ; 
but many have not. 

Aunt M. I would willingly let others know what three 
glasses of wine cost me, but the story is too sad for me to 
tell. Now, you girls will please excuse me. {Goes out) 

A. I don't blame Aunt Mattie for hating wine ; I would, 
too. I never thought a glass or two might do such harm. 
Just to think, a temperate young man ; yes, one who did not 
even drink wine at all, losing his life through three glasses of 
it. Auntie said that it might have been because his hand 
was unsteady and his brain not clear. No, girls, if I cannot 
entertain on New- Year's day without wine, then I will not re 
ceive callers in future. 

H. I came to that conclusion some time ago, Annie; and 
I am glad to find that my cousins agree with me. 

M. I did not agree with you before, but I do now, Cousin 
Hattie. Never again will I advise offering wine to callers. 
Never ; no, never ! 



STARTING A SALOON. 

Characters: Mr. and Mrs. Brown and Mr. and Mrs. 

Jones. 

Brown. Dull times these, Jones, for carpenters and mason 
We hardly have any work in the shop, and, aside from a bu ; ] 
ing or two, we have nothing going on outside. 

Jones. We are as bad off in our line. If it were not fo 
job now and then, I don't know what we would do. Ther 
hardly a mason in the city who has work enough to keep 
hands going half of the time. I have been laid off for n^ 
than two weeks, and it is uncertain when work will come 



Starting a Saloon. 19 

B. Hard times these are, and no chance for better. I wish 
I could get something else to do. 

J. So do I. The fact is I have been out hunting for some 
other business for a week or more. But everything is dull. 

B. Everything but the saloon business, and the breweries ; 
they have all that they can do. Go to any saloon you may, 
at any time of the day or evening, and you will see customers 
there. 

J. No doubt of it. This is their harvest-time, when men 
have nothing to do. Men have time to loaf around a saloon ; 
and lots of them drink to drown their anxiety and disappoint- 
ment. The time of dull business is the time for lively trade 
with the liquor-men. 

B. Say, Jones, how would it do to go into the saloon 
business ? There is money in it, if in nothing else. 

J. I have thought of it ; but, to tell the truth, the business 
is a little too low and dirty for a respectable mechanic to en- 
gage in ; yet, if business does not improve, 1 must try some- 
thing. I cannot let my family starve. 

B. That is about the way I look at it. It is anything but 
a business in which I would like to engage, yet when a man 
is in need he cannot be choicy. I would hate to bring my 
children into a saloon. It is possible to keep a respectable 
saloon, I suppose ? 

J. It may be possible, but there are not many of them, ct 
least around here. Yes, I believe I could keep one, and that 
is the only kind I would keep. What do you say, Brown, to 
starting one with me ; we going in as partners ? 

B. I don't know. I would rather go in with you than any 
man I know ; but I am not anxious to start one at all — I only 
spoke of it as something that might be done. Perhaps I 
would be ready to go in for a while, but would want to get 
out as soon as I had money enough, or I could get into some 
other paying business. I will think of it. We had better ask our 
wives first, though. My rule is to ask my wife before start- 
ing anything new. Two heads are better than one, you know. 



20 Starting a Saloon, 

J. I agree with you ; the women will soon be through with 
the supper-dishes they are washing, and will be in here, when 
we can have a talk about it. I will call them. (Goes out and 
calls Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones, who follow him.) We 
want to talk to you women about a new business, in which we 
propose starting as partners. 

Mrs. Jones. A new business, and as partners? What busi- 
ness, I'd like to know ? I'll be glad if you do start something 
that will give you steady work ; for a more uneasy man than 
you I never saw when you are out of work. 

Mrs. Brown. If you two men start together, I hope it will 
be to keep us all as good friends as we have been since we 
became acquainted ; but what is the business ? 

B. We have thought of starting a saloon together. 

Mrs. B. A saloon ? What kind of saloon ? An eating- 
saloon, an oyster-saloon, or what ? 

J, We thought of a beer-saloon. 

Mrs. J. What, a beer-saloon ? To sell lager-beer, and, of 
course, whiskey? Is that what you think of ? 

B. Yes ; that is about it. 

Mrs. B. Well, I for one, hope you will not do it. It is the 
meanest business you can undertake. I would as lief see you 
start as thieves or.burglars. 

B. Not so bad as that, wife. It is not the best kind of 
business, and not one we would choose ; but we must do 
something to make money. Times are hard and work scarce, 
and there is no telling how soon I will be out of work alto- 
gether; Jones tells me that he has been out for more than 
two weeks already. 

Mrs. B. If you were out for a year, and I had to support 
the family by wa hing and house-cleaning, I would not want 
to see you open a d inking-saloon. Perhaps neither of you 
would drink, but you would tempt other men to drink, and 
other wives would suffer, and other children starve* But 
your own children wonld be brought into the saloon, and see 
and bear, all the evil. It would not take long for them 



Starting a Saloon. 21 

to learn to take part in the evil, and then, where would it 
end? 

J. But, Mrs. Brown, we must do something for a living; 
and that business pays. It is easy, and brings in plent)^ of 
money. I am not willing to engage in it ; yet, what shall a 
man out of work and with a family to support, do ? 

Mrs. J. Do? I would starve first before I would do that. 
It may pay at the beginning, but what about the end ? It 
may pay in money, but will it pay in character, in comfort, in 
respectability ? Will it pay for the community ? Will the 
work pay for others ? Will it pay for your family ? 

J. I confess that the business has a bad look, wife ; but I 
must do something. We only propose doing this until times 
are better, then we will go back to our trades. 

Mrs. J. You may ; but there may be a fascination about 
the business, and it may hold you; when in it you may not 
see its evil. You may be gradually drawn into it more and 
more, until you feel unable to give it up. But you may after 
a while give up the business, yet the evil you have done will 
remain. The drunkards you have helped to make will not 
give up drinking with your leaving ; they will go on. Do you 
know where they will stop ? I can tell you. They will stop 
at the bar of God, and there you will meet them. It will be 
3 r our work that you must meet. What if you make money 
here, will the money pay you for that time and trial ? 

B. We have not decided to start, Mrs. Jones ; we were only 
talking about it, and wanted the advice of you women. 

Mrs, B. And we are ready to give it. You have already 
heard our opinions, but there is much more that can be said. 
You think that money can be made by liquor-selling; no 
doubt a great deal is made in that way ; but is the money 
kept any length of time ? Is it not a general fact, having 
probably exceptions, that money made by the manufacture or 
sale of liquor is not long kept by those making it ? 

Mrs. J. Even if kept, I fear that it would carry a curse with 
it. Children educated by its aid might be educated to evil. 



22 Starting a Saloon. 



'& 



If started irf business, they might prove failures or dis- 
honest. 

B. So it might be with money gained in any other way. 

Mrs. J. That is true ; but I fear that money made by sell- 
ing liquor carries a hidden curse with it wherever it goes. I 
don't want it. I am afraid of it. One thing we all know : 
children of saloon-keepers are likely to become drunkards 
themselves. How can it be otherwise ? They are brought in 
contact with drink and drinkers so much. 

Mrs. B. Don't undertake such a business ; there is too 
much risk in it. You propose doing it for the single purpose 
of making money ; that you may do, but, as we have said, may 
lose even that or gain a curse with it ; but you may lose every- 
thing else. Your own characters are worth more than money ; 
the characters of your children no money could buy from you ; 
the happiness of yourselves and families is worth more than 
all the money you can make from the business. I don't be- 
lieve that such men as you are would be happy in the busi- 
ness ; T know that your wives would not be. How could we, 
when we thought that the business of our husbands was to 
make other families wretched, to take husbands from their 
wives, parents from their children, to strip men of character, 
friends, everything ; to rob the needy of food and clothing ; 
and, worst of all, to destroy men body and soul, and for 
eternity ! Oh, you cannot afford to do all that for money. 
Nothing would be enough pay for such work. 

J. You do put the matter in a bad light, that is a fact. 

Mrs. J. But not as bad as it justly deserves. It is the one 
business that does not stop here. It has something to follow. 
If ever there be a business that must be brought into judg- 
ment, it is liquor-selling. It causes too much sorrow and suf- 
fering here to be atoned for in this life. If a sin can be eternal 
in its effects, and I do not see why it cannot, it is the sin of 
the liquor-seller. He sins against the souls as well as the 
bodies of men. He destroys the body and uses that body to 
capture and eternally ruin the soul. 



The Speakers, 23 

B. Bat, remember that it is not the object of the liquor- 
seller to destroy ; he only works for money. 

Mrs. J. That may be true, and I don't believe that any 

liquor-seller is so much of a demon that he means to ruin a 

1 eternally, yet he does it. He does it without thinking, 

out caring for anything but gain. Is he not guilty, never- 

1 1 less ? A man who shoots off a gun without caring who is 

le way, is as much a murderer as he who takes aim to kill, 

ich destroys a man. It is the business of each to see that 

he will not hurt others. 

Irs. B. Husband, supposing you should start a saloon, and 
after a couple of years should give it up ; you might in that 
time make a few thousand dollars, and you might make a few 
dru lkards. The money would have been taken from others 
who could ill spare it, and they would feel its loss not only, 
but you would not have given a fair return for it. There 
would be an account required of that money somewhere. 
What would you give? But what would become of the 
drunkards made ? I need not say. You must meet them at 
the judgment. What would you answer God when He asked 
why you ruined those men ? 
B. Wife, I will not start a saloon. 
J. Nor will I. There comes a reckoning for all. 



THE SPEAKERS. 

Characters: JOHN, Henry, WILLIAM, Fred, ROBERT, and 

James. 

John. See here, boys, we must stop this nonsense, and 
go to work. We have asked the teacher to let us speak in- 
stead of write compositions, and you know that she agreed, 



24 The Speakers. 

if we would practice our pieces before we spoke them to the 
whole school. 

Henry. That's so, boys, and we have only fifteen minutes 
more of noon left. We have not spoken our pieces over once 
yet. We have not a minute to spare; let's go at it. 

William. Pshaw ! what if we don't all speak our pieces ! 

!We can tell her we did, and she won't know any better. 
Fred. That may do for you, Bill, but I, for one, would like 
to get along without any more lies than there is need of. I 
won't tell a lie about speaking. 

W. What is the harm in a little white lie, when it saves a 
fellow trouble ? 

F. It don't save, but gets him into greater trouble after 
a while. A lie is evil put out at interest ; you get your inter- 
est as you go along, and after a while must draw the principal. 
And the whole of it is bad. I don't want anything to do with 
telling what is not true. 

W. Oh, I don't believe in telling a lie, either, but you know 
that teacher said there is no rule without exceptions. My 
rule is not to tell untruths, but I make an exception now and 
then. 

Robert. Bill, that will not do about exceptions. Teacher 
did not say that there is no rule without exceptions ; she said 
that most of rules had them. She wouldn't have said that 
this one about lying had any. But you don't always believe 
in exceptions, either. You did not like her to flog you for 
stoning Mr. Smith's ducks, and letting us go free; she made 
an exception, she said, of you, because you were the worst, 
and threw at the ducks, while we did at the sticks on the pond. 

James. Bill, do you think it is ever right to tell a lie ? 

W. Sometimes it may- be. 

J. Did you ever see a good, nice man or boy, whom you 
would like to be, who believed in telling a lie? Is it not 
always the bad fellows who believe in telling a story now and 
then to escape trouble ? 

W. See here ; do you mean to say that I am bad ? 






The Speakers. 25 



J. I didn't mean you ; I was only talking in general of tell- 
ing what is not true. But would you feel as good after 
telling Miss Varian that you had spoken your piece, sup- 
posing you hadn't, as you would if you had spoken it all 
through ? 

W. N-no. Can't say that I would. 

John. Boys, we've got no time to talk this matter over. If 
we are to speak at all, we must begin. Who'll speak first ? 
Bill, you begin ; then you'll have it off your mind, and with- 
out telling a story, either. 

W. No ; some of the rest of you begin. I want to study 
my piece first. Why don't you begin, John, you are so anxi- 
ous to have this speaking done ? 

John. All right; I will. Here, Henry, take the book and 
tell me. 

" You'd scarce expect one of my age" — 

F. How old. might you be, sonny ? 

H. Hush, Fred, let him speak. 

John. " To speak in public on the stage. 
And if I chance to fall — fall — " 

F. Take care that you don't hurt yourself, my son. 

W. Wait, John ; you have said part of your piece ; now let 
me say some of mine. Here, Bob, take the book. 

" I'm a little lassie, and live all by myself — " 

F. Well, sis, why do you wear your clothes so much like a 
boy? 

W. I did not say sis ; I said lassie. 

F. What is that but Scotch for sis ? 

W. Scotch for sis ? It's Scotch for boy. 

R. Then you should say laddie, and that is the word in the 
book. 

W. Well, I've said some of my piece anyway, and it won't 
be a lie to say that I have spoken my piece. 

James. Boys, the time is almost up ; the teacher will soon 
be here ; we can't all speak our pieces over before she comes, 
unless we all speak together. What do you say ; shall we try 



26 Signing Away His Liberty, 

that ? It will be fun, and we will be doing what we said, too, 
only it will not be just as the teacher expected. 

R. I don't mind trying that for the fun of the thing, but I 
don't want to deceive our teacher ; she is too good and kind 
to us ; she believes us, and I, for one, will not give her a rea- 
son to doubt my word. If you are willing to tell her how we 
did it, I am ready to speak. 

F. All right. I am ready. 

James. Then let us start. I am ready. John, you give 
the" word. 

John. Are you all ready ? 

All. Yes. 

John. Then, here we go, and the one that gets done first is 
the best man. {Each repeats whatever he may have learned to 
speak, and all as loud as possible, each trying to get through first, 
as well as to drown the voices of the others with his own. Sud- 
denly footsteps are heard as the teacher approaches) 

F. {stopping suddenly). Boys, there comes the teacher. 
I'm off. {Runs away) 

John {stopping and running, followed by all the others). 
I'm with you. {All disappear as the teacher approaches from 
opposite side taken by the boys) 



SIGNING AWAY HIS LIBERTY. 

Characters : William {a young man), Mary {a young woman), 
Annie {nearly grown), and James {a small boy). 

Mary {with the pledge). I wish you would sign it, Will- 
iam ; it will do you no harm, and may keep you out of a great 
deal of trouble ; besides, your influence with others will be in 
the right way. Come, will you sign ? 

William. No, excuse me, Mary; I don't mean to sign any 
pledge. There is no use of asking. I don't want to bind 






Signing Away His Liberty. 27 

myself to anything like that. It is signing away my liberty. 
I am a free man, and such I will be. 

M. Free? I do not see how this will interfere with 
your freedom. Do you mean that you wish to be free to 
drink ? 

W. I mean that I want to feel myself under no pledges, 
no bonds ; I want to do as I please. 

M. You are in business, I think, with Mr. Ray, are you not ? 

W. Yes. Why ? He don't sell liquor or have anything 
to do with it. I am safe there. I don't need a pledge. 

M. That is not what I meant to speak about. But when 
you began business with him did you not make some agree- 
ment ? Did you not bind yourself to do something ? 

W. Of course we made a bargain. Always have to do 
that in every kind of business. 

M. That was what might be called a pledge ; or a pledge 
is a bargain. It is simply an agreement not to buy, sell, make, 
or use as a beverage any intoxicating liquor. 

Annie. Say, Will, you are going to get married some day, 
are you not? You would be a strange young man if you 
did not. 

W. I don't know ; but suppose that I will do like most of 
folks. But what has that got to do with a pledge ? 

A. Why, getting married is one of the strongest possible 
pledges. You promise, and your wife promises, that is, she 
will ; and it is as solemn as can be. 

M. You were a witness in the trial of Mr. Ray against the 
railroad company, were you not, Will ? 

W. Yes ; and I am glad that I was able to say what I did. 
It was my testimony that won Mr. Ray his case. 

M. Did you not swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, 
and nothing but the truth ? 

W. Yes ; every witness must do that. 

M. Did not you take a pledge then ? Did you not bind 
yourself to speak all the truth, and nothing but what was true, 
and do it with God as a witness ? 



28 Signing Away His Liberty. 

W. Yes ; I suppose it was about that. 

M. Well, then, since you have taken pledges even more 
solemn than this, and since you are ready, if necessary, to 
take others for the benefit of those around you, why should 
not you take this pledge ? 

W. Oh, Mary, I dislike to sign a Temperance pledge, i 
am not opposed to Temperance ; I never drink and never 
mean to. 

A. Are you sure, Will ? 

W. Sure? Why, of course I am. I have determined 
that long ago. I won't touch a glass of anything that will in- 
toxicate. Why should I not be sure ? 

A. But, Will, if you should get married are you sure that 
you would promise to love and protect your wife ? Would 
you really agree to do it ? Would you promise it out loud ? 

W. Why shouldn't I agree and promise ? Every one does. 
If I loved a woman well enough to marry her I would prom- 
ise, of course ; and what is more, I would keep that promise, 
and that is more than many a man does. 

M. Will, you are a strange young man. You are willing 
to take pledges for others, and sign away all your liberty for 
their sake, but will not do anything that way for yourself. 

W. I don't understand you. 

M. You make a bargain to work in a man's service and 
give him, for a certain part of the day, all your time. So 
you have no liberty. When you come to protect your em- 
ployer's interests, and to tell a story relating to him, you 
pledge yourself by a most solemn oath that you will tell only 
the truth, no matter how much it may injure him. Then you 
are willing to give a part of your time, money, strength, and 
all you possess to a woman you love ; and will pledge your- 
self to do it in the most solemn manner possible ; and yet 
when it comes to making an agreement, that you say you 
have already made in your own mind, and mean to keep too, 
you will not do it for fear of signing away your liberty. I 
don't think you are consistent. 



Signing Away His Liberty. 29 



IW. It does look that way, I admit. 
James. Say, Will, you know old Toby Shook? Well, I 
heard him say that he wouldn't sign away his liberty by sign- 
ing a pledge. And he didn't. But I saw him soon after lying 
out in the rain, asleep and drunk. He was enjoying his 
liberty then, I tell you. He had liberty to sleep wherever he 
wanted to, but then no one else wanted his liberty. 

W. Oh, Jim, you don't know about this ; it is not for small 
boys to understand. 

J. Hain't, hey? I guess we know about it too. Me and a 
couple of the other boys were out in the fields the other day 
and heard a lot of dogs bark. We went there, of course, to 
see what was up. Sure enough, something was up ; it was an 
old cat up a tree, and four dogs barking with all their might. 
It was just fun to see that cat. She sat in a crotch looking 
down on those dogs as if she owned the whole world and a 
little lot outside. She didn't care whether the circus went 
through the town without stopping or stayed a week. She 
looked up into the sky as if to say, there's lots of room up 
that way. But she couldn't go that way much farther. The 
fact is, she was just treed ; and, Will, it looks to me as if you 
was about treed too. The girls have got you, and you might 
as well say quits, and sign the pledge. They'll be after you 
until you do now, I know. That's the way the girls of our 
Band of Hope did to us boys until they got every one of us. 
I tell you we felt just as that cat did when we drove the dogs 
away and she could come down. But my ! didn't she scoot 
for home when she found enough ground to travel on. Bet- 
ter sign, Will ; you'll have to in the end. We had to. 

W. Well, girls, I suppose I may as well, as Jim says, to 
escape. Really, as you have put it, I can't see why I should 
not sign the pledge not to drink, when I am ready to take 
any other reasonable pledge, especially as I have already de- 
termined not to drink. Give me the pledge. (Mary hands 
it, and he signs.) There now, I suppose I may do as Jim says, 
" scoot." 



30 They Loved After All. 

THEY LOVED AFTER ALL. 

Characters: Wife, Husband {both laden with basket '; and 
several packages), and Stranger. 

Wife. Jonathan, what car is this ? I don't believe it's the 
right one. 

Husband. I know it is. I asked the conductor. He said 
we are all right. 

W. I know we are not. This car don't go to the ferry ; 
you can't tell me, now. 

H. Well, 111 ask again. The conductor ought to know. 

W. What's the use of asking ? He'll only lie to you 
again. {Looking over packages?) There, now; you've just 
gone and forgot that bottle of cold coffee. Just like you to 
forget everything. You'll forget your head yet. 

H. Well, I supposed you thought of the coffee. 

W. I thought of it. Yes, that's just the way with you 
men. Your wives must think of everything. It looks like 
rain. Did you bring the blue umbrella? {Looking over pack- 
ages?) It isn't here ; and it is your business to see about the 
umbrella. Now, I'll just catch my death of cold. But what 
will you care ? 

H. Guess we won't need an umbrella on the cars. 

W. We will when we get out. {Picking up a good um- 
brella among the packages?) What does that do among our 
things ? Some gentleman's, I guess. 

H. That's ours. I bought it. The blue one is old and 
don't look fit to go out. 

W. Just like you ; spending all your money on new um- 
brellas. Won't ever buy anything for me, though. I can 
wait a year now for a new dress, I suppose. 

H. Better buy umbrellas than whiskey. 

W. Twitting me about my brother's drinking, are you ? 
Well, he don't have to borrow money to buy whiskey, any- 
way. 






They Loved After AIL 31 



H. Who's twitting now ? If my brother borrowed money 
he did it when the man was at home, anyway. 

W. Jonathan D. I. Brown, you needn't bring that up 
again. I've told you a thousand times that my brother didn't 
steal that money ; he found it, and you know it, too. But I 
tell you this is the wrong car. 

H. Well, I'll ask again and see about it. 

W. Don't go talking to every man you see. They'll rob 
you. Everybody who travels is a rascal just as like as not. 

H. I travel some. 

W. Well, I didn't say that fools always stay at home. 

H. Your brother's on the road most of the time. 

W. I wish I knew where this car goes to. 

H. I will find out. These men will tell me. 

W. Don't go and talk to everybody. You are always do- 
ing it, though. I expect to see you come home some day with 
your pocket picked, your coat stolen, and your head shot off. 

H. Do you think I mean to talk to you all day? Can do 
that at home. 

W. Well, just you mind and don't talk so that everybody 
will know that you are from the country and don't know 
much. {Looking at basket?) I wonder if Jane forgot to put in 
those pickles ? 

H. {To stranger near.) Dry times, now, mister. Have 
much trouble to water stock now ? 

Stranger. (Indignantly.) Sir, we do not water our stock. 

H. Don't ? Must get mighty thin. 

S. Sir, I am an honest man, and never water nor do I deal 
in watered stock. 

H. You must have queer stock. Wish I could get some 
of the same kind when water is so scarce. I water mine twice 
a day, and that isn't enough in hot weather. 

S. I am not a farmer, sir. I was speaking of railroad 
stock. I deal in railroad stock. 

H. That so? Why, are you using oxen to draw the cars 
now ? Slow, ain't they ? 



32 They Loved After AIL 

S. You do not seem to know much about business ? 

W. My husband knows more about business than lots of 
city folks. He pays his honest debts, and don't part his hair 
in the middle either. {To Husband.) Do you know, Jane's 
gone and left out all the ham and sponge-cake ! 

H. Sponge-cake ! I'm glad of it. It isn't fit to eat, any- 
way. Sponge-cake always tastes as if it was made of saw- 
dust and dry soap-suds sweetened. 

W. Jonathan ! Jonathan David Isaac Brown ; you sha'n't 
talk so about my cooking. You never knew what good liv- 
ing was until I cooked for you. 

H. Maybe I didn't. Didn't know that tongues ever grew 
more than two yards long, either. 

W. Twitting me about my tongue again, are you ? Well, 
it never was foolish enough to ask if cars are drawn by oxen. 
If you had looked you would have seen that some cars are 
drawn by relations of yours — mules. 

H. Relations of mine? — yes, by marriage. 

W. Twitting me again about my family. You were glad 
enough to marry in it, anyway. No one could stop you. But 
I'm sorry about that ham ; the chicken is there though. You 
like that better than any other meat. I'm glad that I put 
that in. 

H. Say, Phebe Jane ; I put a bottle of root-beer in for you. 
I know that you like it. 

W. Much obliged to you, Jonathan. It's just like you. 
After all you are good. But in which bottle did you put it ? 

H. In the blue bottle. That looks nicest. 

W. The blue bottle ! Why, that's had castor-oil in. It's 
just like you to spoil everything. What are we stopping for ? 
What are you doing with the things ? 

H. {Rising attd gathering tip the packages?) This is the 
ferry. We get out here. I'll carry the things. You are 
tired. I want you to have a good time to-day. You have 
worked hard enough to earn it. Keep close to me in the 
crowd. Don't want to lose you now. You take the umbrella. 



What Some Do in Church. 33 

W. What have you got in that paper ? 

H. Some candy that I thought you would like. 

W. Well, you are good — only (turning to the audience), 
he has some queer streaks, and he shows them more when 
we are out than when we are home. You see, I must scold 
him some, or he'd get proud and think too much of himself. 
If I showed how much I like him people would say I was 
foolish. 

H. (Turning to the audience?) Yes, and she is good, too, 
but I hate to own it to anybody. I think of it, though, fifty 
times a day. She'd work her fingers off to make me com- 
fortable. 



WHAT SOME DO IN CHURCH. 

Characters : Mary and Annie (almost grown) ; John and 
Will (somewhat younger) ; John and Will sitting back and 
reading. 

Mary. Annie, did you see Emma Brown's hat yesterday ? 

Annie. Yes, I could hardly help looking at it all through 
the service. It was horrid. 

M. The Browns have no taste, anyway. I wonder if they 
know how they appear to others ? Their dresses never fit. 

A. Did you notice the young man with the Masons ? Wasn't 
he splendid ? What magnificent eyes and beautiful curly hair 
he has ; and his moustache is just perfect. 

M. Of course I noticed him. Addie Mason did, too, I im- 
agine, from the way she cast side-glances into his face. I 
wonder if he is a beau of hers ? 

A. I don't see anything in Addie Mason that such a man 
can admire. Yet he was very attentive. 

M. Perhaps that was only politeness. He seems so gen- 



34 What Some Do in Church. 

tlemanly. What small, delicate hands he has ; how neatly 
his dress fitted, and what a beautiful ring he wore. 

A. No doubt he is rich. Ad Mason will have a fine catch 
if she gets him. I wish I knew who he is. 

M. But did you see the bride ? Was not she sweet ? How 
prettily she was dressed. 

A. Yes ; she did appear well, much better than the groom. 
What large hands he has. I wonder if his gloves were made 
to order ? they did not fit. But what attracted my attention 
most was the restlessness of Jennie Smith. The girl did not 
sit still two minutes. 

M. I couldn't help watching. She was looking at one, 
then at another before her, or on either side, or even behind 
her ; and when she grew tired of looking, then she was fixing 
her gloves, or picking the fringe of her cloak. I wonder if 
she heard a word of the sermon ? 

A. Did you notice that Mr. Brown put only a penny in the 
basket ? It was the collection for foreign missions, too. 

M. No, I did not see, for I was trying to find something 
besides pennies in my purse. It mortified me to think that 
I had nothing else to give. If I couldn't give more than a 
penny I wouldn't give anything. I wish people wouldn't hold 
the collection-basket so long, when they might know the per- 
son has nothing to give. 

A. I could not help laughing to see old Mr. Dean jump 
when the basket was passed to him. He seemed asleep. I 
wonder if he goes to sleep before the collection, so that he 
may escape giving? 

M. I did not see Mr. Dean jump, but I saw that Mary Dean 
had on her old hat. It had new flowers and a new feather, 
but it is the old hat she wore last winter, I know. Mr. Dean 
might afford his only daughter a new hat every winter, I 
think. But he is so close. 

A. What a sight Minnie Brown was with that great white 
feather on her bonnet. It did not become her at all. And 
wasn't it ridiculous to see her sit so far from her intended. 






What Some Do in Church. 35 

I wonder if they care much for each other? He seems a nice 
young man, though. 

M. That was a good sermon. I wish all foreign mission- 
aries could preach as well as the one did yesterday. 

John {coming forward}. So you did hear something of 
the sermon ? I wondered if you girls could find time to 
think of anything but dress. 

A. O, you horrid boys ! I didn't think of your hearing us. 

J. Couldn't help it, Annie. Glad we heard. Now we know 
what keeps girls so quiet in church. They are thinking of 
the sermon and — other things. 

M. It is better to be quiet than to be making a disturb- 
ance as boys do. 

J. Boys can keep quiet as well as girls ; and we were quiet 
yesterday, were we not, Will ? 

Will (coming forward). ¥es, and not thinking of dress 
either. 

A. That may be ; but were you thinking of other things 
than the sermon ? 

J. If we were, we only followed the example of those who 
are older. I don't know what Will thought of, but I thought 
about what the minister was saying. 

M. And only that, I suppose. Of course you did not think 
of dress, nor yet of people who wore dress ; nor did you think 
of school, nor fun, nor skating, nor anything else besides the 
sermon and the heathen. 

J. Yes, I did think two or three times about the ice, and 
wondered if it would be good skating this week ; and I did 
wish that we could have part of our long vacation now, while 
there is plenty of snow and good skating. But I thought of 
the sermon, too, and of the heathen, and wondered if they 
had such fun as we do. 

A. You did not think about your rabbit-traps, or horses, 
or anything else ? 

J. Well, yes; I did think that it would be nice if we could 
set traps and go to them before twelve o'clock Saturday 



36 What Some Do in Church. 

night. Then I wondered if rabbits would come in before day- 
light if we set them again after twelve Sunday night ; and — 
yes, I did wish that I owned Mr. Turner's team of bay colts. 
How I would train them. They'd just go if I was behind. 

A. So you did think of something besides the sermon. Is 
that all ? Didn't you think of pulling Mary Raynor to school 
on your sled this morning? 

J. Now, that is not fair, Annie, to ask such a question. 
What if I did ? but I will not tell you any more. I am no 
worse than you, and you are older than I. 

M. Will, how was it with you ? Did you think of the ser- 
mon all of the time, too ? 

W. No, not all the time ; though I did think of it a good 
deal. I may as well tell, too. I did think of the bride and 
groom, and wondered if all people cry when they get mar- 
ried. Then I wondered why sowie folks always cry at wed- 
dings — if it is because they want to be married, too, or are 
sorry that they are, or what. 

J. Did you think how the groom asked the bride to marry 
him for — but no matter. 

W. Did you ? No, 1 didn't ; but then I don't care as much 
for girls as some boys, and don't think of such things. But 
I did wonder why some people like others so much, when 1 
can't see anything in them at all to like. I saw that young 
man w r ith Addie Mason, and wondered if he put his hair up 
in papers, as girls do, to make it curl. I wondered, too, if he 
paid for his clothes, or if his father bought them. They were 
nice ; but, pshaw, I didn't think I had thought of so many 
things. I don't want to tell any more. How a boy does 
think when he is in church and isn't sleepy. 

M. it seems that we-are all alike in thinking when we are 
in church. Since the boys have spoken of it, 1 am ashamed 
to think how I spend my time there. 

A. 1 am, too. It's a good thing that you and I, Mary, are 
almost women. I suppose that grown people do not have 
such thoughts in church. 






An Irishman's View of the Census. 37 



J. Don't, hey ? I don't see that you girls are any improve- 
ment on us boys, though you are older. Grown people are 
no better than we. Just watch their eyes in church and 
you'll see that they are looking at everything else except the 
preacher, unless they are asleep. Don't think of other things ! 
Just find out, and if they don't beat us then say that I don't 
know. Why, we just learn it from them — before we are old 
enough to know about it at all. 



AN IRISHMAN'S VIEW OF THE 
CENSUS. 

Characters : James and Patrick. 

James. Pat, have you seen one of those men around who 
take the census ? 

Pat. Takes the sinses ! Whose sinses wud they be afther 
takin' ? 

J. Everybody's ; yours and mine, too. 

P. Take me sinses ! Will, it won't be the forst toime I've 
had me sinses taken. Once I fell from a waggin an' lost 'em 
all entoirly; an' thin another toime a p'licemon saw me bav- 
in' a bit o' fun, and he cracked me over the hid with his 
shillaly ; bad luck to him, an' I fill to the sidewalk with me 
sinses gone entoirly again. Another toime, it was St. Pat- 
rick's day, I filt happy an' pathriotic loike fur ould Ireland, 
so I tuk a lot of whuskey aboard, more than I cud stagger 
under. I cudn't stand it all, an' me sinses was gone entoirly, 
until I found meself the nixt morning locked up in the sthation- 
house. Now, which of thim is it that takes a mon's sinses 
now? 

J. None of them, Pat. It is not that kind of senses. They 
come to put down how old you are, how much of a family 
you have, and how much property you have got. 



38 An Irishman s Viezv of the Census. 

P. An* is that the way they take a mon's sinses now ? Does 
it hurt ? for ye see it hurt me to fall from the waggin, an' to 
get a whack from the plicemon's shillaly, an' me hid ached 
awfully the nixt mornin' when I was in the sthation-house. 

J. No, they don't hurt ; how could they ? They only ask 
questions. 

P. Did ye say they put down how ould a mon is, an' how 
much of a family he has, an' how much property he has got ? 

J. Yes, that is it. 

P. Will, that's foine. Ye see, I always wanted to know 
how ould I am, because I don't remimber the toime I was 
born. An' thin, too, I wanted to know if there's any prop- 
erty in this country for me. I can't foind any that other 
people will lit me have, unless I foight for it ; an' thin I can't 
kape it. I don't care much about the family, though, unless 
the sinses mon cud give me a noice wife an' two or three 
childer, with some money to care for them. Wud he do it, 
ye think ? 

J. No ; they do not give or tell you anything. They just 
put down what you have. 

P. An' what do they do that for ? 

J. The Government wishes to know. 

P. Maybe it's some of thim rascals that want to know so 
that they can stale a mon's money an' clothes whin he slapes. 

J. Oh, no ; the Government is honest. It don't want any 
man's property. 

P. Perhaps it wants to make things aven loike, an' guv' a 
poor fillow that has not a shillin' some of the rich mon's dol- 
lars. That'll be takin' Pat Murphy's sinses right straight. 
Lit the sinses mon come. I'm riddy for all the avenin' up he 
wants to do. I can stand it. 

J. No; there will be no making things even. Each one 
will keep what he has; the Government only wants to know 
how many people it has, and how much each man owns, so 
that it may show how large and rich a nation it is. 

P. Now I see. The Government is loike a big mon with a 



Johnnie and the Sunday-School Superintendent. 39 

moighty foine watch an' clothes, an' it wants to know how 
big an' rich it is, so it sinds the sinsesmon to take the mesure 
loike, so that it can wear a bigger chain an' show off more. 

J. Yes ; it is something like that, only it does not do it 
that it may spend more on itself. The Government wishes to 
show other nations how large and strong it is. 

P. Yis ; yis ; I see, It's loike a mon with a big family of 
grown boys who calls 'em all out, an' thin says to the mon 
with whom he wants a bit of a tussel, " Now, stip on the tail 
of me coat ; stip on it, I say, if ye dare ! " 

J. No, Pat, you are wrong, Government does not care to 
fight nor get into an}- trouble with other nations. It only 
wishes to show them how large and strong it is, that they 
mcy see that it is a large and prosperous country. 

?. Now I think I have it. America wants to tell Ireland 
an thim Britishers, an' Dutchmen, an' those frog-ateing men 
across the English Channel : " Look at me boys ; see what 
fone fellows they are ! See how many I've got ! See how 
rich they are ! Here's the counthry to live an' get rich in." 
Yis ; yis ; an' thin they'll see in ould Ireland an' they'll think : 
There's Pat Murphy, who cudn't buy salt for his praties here, 
in' now he's rurmin' aroun' in America with his pockets full 
of dollars, an' 'ach one as big as a cart-wheel. Yis ; }ds ; it's 
a grand thing to have the sinses taken. Let the sinses mon 
take mine. 



JOHNNIE AND THE SUNDAY- 
SCHOOL SUPERINTENDENT. 

Characters: Johnnie and the Superintendent. 

Sup. Johnnie, why do you not go to Sunday-school ? 
John. Because — because — I don't want to go, I guess. 
S. Not want to go to Sunday-school ? Did not you at- 
tend years ago ? 



40 Johnnie and the Sunday-School Superintendent. 

J. Yes, sir; I went to your school, but I don't go any- 
wheres now. 

S. Did you not like our school ? 

J. Yes, sir ; I liked it first-rate, and wished that Sundays 
would come twice a week ; but I don't go now. 

S. If you liked to go, why did you stop ? No one hindered 
you, did they ? 

J. Well, no, sir; I just thought that I'd give up going. 

S. I am surprised and sorry. We want you. In fact there 
is a class there with a first-rate teacher that needs just such a 
boy as you to help talk about the lessons. 

j. Can't have me, sir. I am not going any more. Got 
done going. 

S. Why, Johnnie, don't you want to go and learn to be gooi? 

j. No, sir; don't mean to be good. 

S. Not mean to be good ? Don't you want to love tie 
Saviour? 

J. Sir, I wish that you would not ask me that. I can't 
answer. 

S. Why, Johnnie ! don't you like to hear about Jesus ? 

J. Yes, sir; but please don't ask me about Him. 

S. This is strange. Why don't you want to talk about 
Jesus ? 

J. See, here, sir ; do you like boys ? 

S. Yes, I do. I was a boy not many years ago myself, and 
have not forgotten what boys are. Because I like them I 
want to see them love Jesus and become good. 

J. Well, sir, when you was a boy you wouldn't be sticking 
pins in the fellow that you liked, would you ? 

S. No ; certainly not, 

J. But when you talk to me about Jesus you are sticking 
pins in my heart ; and they hurt. 

S. I do not understand you. But let me ask you another 
question. Don't you want to be good and go to Heaven ? 

J. No, sir; I don't want to go to Heaven. 

S. What ! not want to go to Heaven ? What do you 



Johnnie and the Sunday-School Superintendent. 41 

mean ? Don't you know that Heaven is just the place for 
boys ? That Jesus was once a boy, and so when He went to 
Heaven to prepare a place for those who love Him, He did 
not forget the boys ? 

J. That's just what makes it hard, sir. 

S. Johnnie, do you believe that you can trust me enough 
to tell me what is the reason you do not want to go to Sun- 
day-school ; why you do not want to hear about Jesus, and 
why you do not wish to go to Heaven ? 

J. I guess you do know about boys ; all the boys say you 
do. Do you know what kind of boys can go to Heaven ? 

S. Just such boys as you are, if they love and serve Jesus. 

J. But I like to swim, and skate, and holier, and ride wild 
colts, and stand on my head, and do lots of such things. 

S. So did I when I was a boy, and sometimes I would like 
to do it yet. 

J. Would you ? And ain't it awful wicked ? Grandmother 
says it is. But did you ever whistle on Sunday? 'Cause, 
you see, I do ; I can't help it ; 'fore I know, my lips turn up 
and the whistle comes. 

S. Yes, I often whistle Sunday-school tunes. 

J. Did you ever do worse things? You see I do. Some 
things I don't want to tell you about ; they are very bad. 

S. Yes, I am sorry to say I did many bad things, and am 
not clear of doing them yet. 

J. Is that so? And can you get to Heaven then ? Does 
Jesus know about it ? 

S. Yes, Johnnie ; Jesus knows and forgives me, and helps 
me to do better ; and I believe that He will save me at last. 

J. Is that the way of it ? Will Jesus love a boy, and take 
him to Heaven even if that boy is wild and can't help it, and 
sins when he don't want to ? I don't want to be bad. It 
often makes me cry to think how bad I am. 

S. Jesus knows how you feel. He pities and loves you, 
and if you will only ask Him to help you, and then let Him, 
He will make you better. 



42 Getting Signers for a License, 

J. I'm so glad you asked me about Sunday-school, and 
told me about Jesus caring for such boys as me. If Jesus 
knows a fellow, and yet will take hold and help him, then I 
guess I can be better, too; and I mean to try to get to 
Heaven, for I want to go. 

5. Then you'll come to Sunday-school ? 

J. Yes, sir. But you see they talked so much about my 
skating, and hollering, and whistling at home that I thought 
if such things were so bad there was no help for me ; because 
I did so many things that were worse. You see, I am about 
the worst boy around. But I don't want to be so. Now, if 
Jesus will do so much for a boy, after He knows all about that 
boy's badness, what can hinder the worst being good and 
being saved ? Yes, sir, I do want, awful bad, too, to be bet- 
ter, and to be saved and go to Heaven, if there's any chance 
for such chaps as me. 



GETTING SIGNERS FOR A LICENSE. 

Characters: Burns, O'Leary, Richter, and 

SCHLEYER. 

Burns. Men, I've called you together to see what we shall 
do about signers for license. You know we must have twelve 
freeholders — men who own property not onty, but real estate ; 
and not one of the twelve can sign two petitions. So, for us 
four alone, we will need forty-eight signers. Just think of 
that ! Where are the men to come from ? These temperance 
fanatics have not only compelled the Legislature to make strict 
laws, but of late they see to it that the laws are enforced. 

O'Leary. That's joost where the throuble comes in. Whin 
they made laws it was all roight, but whin they begin to en- 
force thim, thin we, who are thrying to make an honist living, 



Getting Signers for a License. 43 

moost be on the lookout. If we lit thim go we moost go out 
av the business. But what will yees do, Burns? 

B. That is what I call you together for. What do you ad- 
vise ? We must work together and try sharper games than 
we have tried before, or we'll be beaten. The temperance 
men are united ; and what is more, they are working with all 
their wits, and they are putting the sharpest men to the front. 
We must use our wits. If we make an open fight we are lost. 
The majority is against us, for nine-tenths of the women are 
on that side, and the evil one himself would go under if they 
all should turn against him. 

Richter. I am ready for anything. It is as Mr. Burns says, 
though ; we have sharp men to fight, and they are coming 
down upon us. When they fought with talk and law-making, 
we could afford to let them have their say ; but now that they 
have got to actual hard work, and not only talk, but use law, 
and without fear or favor, we must look out for ourselves. 
What do you say, Schleyer? 

Schleyer. I dinks too dot ve must do somedings, and I am 
here to do. But I feel sorry for dis gountry ven it sthops der 
beer and liquor beesness. Den you vill see such troubles as 
nefer vas. Vat vil de farmer do mit his grain and fruit ? Sell 
dem for nodings, or let dem rot. Ain't it so ? 

B. That's so, Schleyer ; but we are after something else 
now. The time is near for renewal of license ; how to get 
forty-eight signers to our four petitions is the question for 
us. These temperance fellows watch so close that we can't 
smuggle one man's name through on two or more petitions. 
Then, too, by publishing the name of each signer the temper- 
ance men have made respectable men afraid to sign. 

S. Vat ve care apout de men who sign, ef ve only get deir 
names, and den haf de license ? Respectable? Dat is nod- 
ings. Ve vant signers ; vat cares ve who dey be ? 

R. Yes ; but the better the men the more likely is your 
petition to be granted. All I care for is to sell. I don't care 
about signers, petition, or license, if I can sell liquor ; but it 



44 Getting Signers for a License, 

is the only way. I won't butt against a stone wall if there be 
a gate to go through ; but if a good-sized hole is open, I wil 
take to that rather than pay gate-fee. There is no hole open 
now ; or if there Jbe, somebody stands ready to catch you as 
soon as you get to the other side, if you try one. 

B. Men, there is no use of talking about it ; our licenses 
are nearly run out. If we don't get forty-eight men who own 
real estate to sign our petitions by the last of the month, we 
must shut up shop and go out of the business. That's the 
matter for us to attend to now. 

O'L. Thin lit's git the min an' have thim sign the pati- 
tions. O'ill pay me share. 

R. So will all of us if you will get the men, O'Leary. Bring 
them on, and the petitions will be ready for their names. 

O'L. Oi git the min ? An' where shall Oi git thim ? Whoi 
won't dollars do ? Pay the Commissioners of Excise an' 
they'll guv yees loicense. 

R. Paying won't do now. That time is past. We must 
get the signers, and they must be real ones, too. But, Burns, 
have not you some plan to propose ? 

B. Yes, I have ; and one that will work, too. More than 
that, it will work for all time, at least under the present law. 
It is — but I will give the plan. Make your freeholders ! 

O'L. An' how can ye make thim ? If Burns can make 
fraholthers, why can't he make min to coom to our saloons 
to dhrink? Wud ye thry thot, Burns, me mon? 

B. No joking, O'Leary; I mean business. Get men whom 
you can trust to buy some land; that will make them free- 
holders. 

S. Vere vill you get de men to puy ? And vere vill dey 
get de monish ? And vere ish de land ? 

B. I'll tell you the whole plan. Richter and I have talked 
it over, and have found that it can be done without a doubt. 
An acre of ground has in it sixteen city building lots. Now, 
my plan is to buy three acres of that worthless ground to the 
north — that low ground, you know — and lay it out into forty- 



Pretending. 45 

eight building lots. Those we will sell for a trifle to forty-eight 
men, whom we know and can trust, on condition that they 
sign our petitions for license. We can manage to give any of 
the fellows a couple of free drinks, now and then, on condi- 
tion that each buys a lot for a few dollars apiece from us, and 
then agrees, as a freeholder, to sign one of our petitions. 

O'L. Hurrah for Burns ! Me boy, ye are a janius. 

S. Dat ish joost de ting. Now, vat vill dem temperance 
men say ? Dey can't help demselves. 

R. We will form ourselves into a 'land speculation com- 
pany for selling city building-lots to poor mechanics and 
laboring men to help them on in the world, you see. Where 
are your temperance men who would do that for poor drink- 
ing men ? 

B. It will work, men, I tell you. I asked a lawyer about 
it, and he said that we would have the best of the temperance 
men. I propose that we form a stock company, with Richter 
as President, O'Leary as Vice-President, Schleyer as Secre- 
tary, and I will take up with the Treasuryship. We will make 
the shares one hundred dollars each, and have a capital of 
about four hundred dollars. That will do. It will pay a frg 
dividend over the bar to each one of us. Our land sales will 
be philanthropy, our saloon work will be business. 



PRETENDING. 

Characters : Mary, a girl of twelve or fourteen years, and 
three young ladies, Miss Needham, Miss Franklin, 
and Sarah. 

Mary (alone). Oh, dear; there come Miss Needham and 
Miss Franklin to call. Sister Sarah is not home, ma is wash- 
ing, and I am not dressed to receive company ! What shall I 
do ? That Miss Needham is very deaf, too ; at least one of 



4.6 Pretending. 

the Needham girls is, and I must talk so loud. I wish that 
they would not call here. Who wants to see them ? They 
don't have any style ; their fathers are only workingmen, and 
their families are of no account. But I suppose that I must 
entertain them, or Sarah will never let me hear the last of it. 
How am I to know whether or not this is the deaf Needham 
girl ? I will talk very loud first, and see. I will not talk much, 
though. {Rap outside, and Mary admits the ladzes) 

Miss Needham and Miss Franklin. Good-afternoon. 

M. {very loud). Good-afternoon. Please be seated. 

Miss N. {to Mary, going for a chair on the farther side of 
the room). Is your sister Sarah at home? (Mary not reply- 
ing, she repeats in a loud tone). Is Sarah, your sister, at home 
this afternoon ? 

M. {very loud). No, Miss Needham, she has gone out for 
a ride, but will be back soon. 

Miss F. {quite loud). I am sorry. 

M. {very loud). Please remain; she will soon return. If 
you will excuse me for a few minutes, I will leave orders with 
the servants, that she come in the parlor immediately on her 
arrival. {Goes out?) 

Miss N. Oh, my ! How loud she talks ! 

Miss F. She must be deaf. 

Miss N. It seems so. She had the scarlet fever. I sup- 
pose that has left her deaf. 

Miss F. I am sorry not to find Sarah at home. She is just 
the one we need to make up our party. She is such a nice, 
sensible girl. 

Miss N. Yes, and so different from the rest of the family. 
What a pity that the Nolans pretend to be so aristocratic. 

M. {entering ; very loud). Ma says that sister will be in 
soon, and that you must excuse her, for she is suffering with 
neuralgia to-day. 

Miss N. {loud). Very well. We will wait a while. {Inordi- 
nary voice to Miss F.) What a pity that she is so deaf. How 
hard it is to speak to her. 



Pretending. 47 

Miss F. What an awful disease scarlet fever is. I do not 
suppose that she can hear ordinary conversation at all. 

Miss N. No ; quite certainly not. 

Miss. F. You said a few minutes ago that they pretend to 
be aristocratic. Are the Nolans from aristocratic families ? 

Miss N. No ; not more than you and I are. By pretending 
to be they lose the sympathy they would otherwise have in 
their straitened circumstances. 

Miss F. What do they mean when they speak of loss of 
stock ? Did Mr. Nolan ever own much stock in any company ? 

Miss N. Not that any one knows of. It is a way they have 
of talking, because it sounds as though they had been very 
wealthy. All their talk about stock being unsalable, and 
about their banker making payments, is simply absurd. Mr. 
Nolan never was wealthy ; and the family is supported princi- 
pally by one of the sons, who is a miner in Nevada. 

Miss F. You say that they are not from a noted family. 
Who was that grandfather of whom they speak so often ? 
They call him " Major "; was he a major in the Revolutionary 
army ? 

Miss N. A major? No. I have often heard my grandfather 
speak, when I was a little girl, of Jack Nolan. He was musician 
in a militia regiment ; a drum-major, I think grandfather said. 
Afterwards he was transferred to one of the regiments of the 
regular army. 

Miss F. Then he was nothing but a drummer; and his 
promotion, of which they speak so much, was only a transfer 
from one regiment to another. Why do they try to deceive 
people ? What good do they expect to get from such decep- 
tion ? Do they not know that people will sooner or later find 
them out ? It seems too much like getting credit on false pre- 
tences. Who would think the less of them, if they said that 
their grandfather was a drum-major, instead of calling him a 
major in the Revolutionary army? 

Miss N. I am sorry that they have this weakness, especi- 
ally as nearly every one around knows their real condition . 
and position. 



48 Pretending. 

Miss F. It is too bad ! They seem in other respects a 
pleasant family. Do you know that I am half sure that Mrs. 
Nolan, instead of being troubled with neuralgia, is at the 
wash-tub ? I am certain that I heard some one washing. But 
we ought not to talk about them. 

Miss N. True, and in their own house, too ; I am ashamed 
of myself. I hope that this one {pointing to Mary) has not 
understood us. 

Miss F. We need not fear that. You know how loud she 
spoke to us. She is as deaf as can be. But as Sarah does not 
come we may as well go now, and call again some other time. 

Miss N. Very well. 

M. {very loud, as they prepare to leave). Do not go yet. I 
am sure that Sarah will soon be here. 

Miss F. {loud). Thanks. We will call again. Good-bye. 
{Go out.) 

M. {loud). Good-bye. {hi ordinary voice?) I am glad that 
they have gone. I hardly knew what to do while they were 
talking so about us. But here comes Sarah. {Enter Sarah.) 
I will tell her all about it. Oh, Sarah, you ought to have 
heard what I did. 

Sarah, What did you hear? But where are Nellie Need- 
ham and Mattie Franklin ? Mother said they were waiting 
to see me. 

M. They have just gone. They said that they would call 
again, but I don't want them to ; they talked just awfully 
about us. 

S. What did they say, and how did they happen to talk 
when you were by ? 

M. They thought that I was deaf. You know that one of 
the Needham girls is deaf, and I thought it might be this one, 
so I talked very loud, and that made them think me deaf. It 
was such fun at first that I would not tell them otherwise ; 
after a while I did not dare tell them. 

S. You should not have allowed them to be deceived. But 
what did they say about us that is so bad ? They do not usu- 
allv tell what is not true. 



Pretending, 49 

M. They said that we did not belong to an aristocratic 
family, and that we had never been wealthy, and that all our 
talk about our stock and our banker is absurd ; and that we 
are supported by our brother, who is a miner out West. They 
even said that pa's grandfather was nothing but a drummer in 
the Revolution. Oh, it is awful ! 

S. It might be, if what they said were not all true. 

M. But they said that we are trying to get credit on false 
pretences. 

S. Mary, has not our family been pretending to be what it 
is not ? Have not we put on a great many airs for poor peo- 
ple ? I have often felt ashamed of our pretences. I hate sham, 
and wish that we were content to appear just what we are, 
and would make our way in the world instead of living a false 
life, and doing nothing. We can see through other people's 
pretences, and it is not strange that they see through ours. 

M. Yet it is pleasant to talk and have people think that we 
are something more than common folks, — ; 

S. But you see that they do not think so. On the con- 
trary, they think the less of us for trying to deceive them. 
Mary, pretending to be what we are not is little better than 
acting a falsehood. 

M. Oh, I hate to be thought of no account. 1 want people 
to think me to be somebody, even if I am not. 

S. But they will not think otherwise of you than what you 
are. You have had^proof of that just now. Mary, we may 
deceive people for a while by false pretences, but sooner or 
later they will find us out, and then they will not even take 
us tor what we are. They will regard us as cheats and frauds. 
Do let us give up this pretence. I am disgusted with it, and 
in future mean to seem just what I am. 



So Calling a Pastor. 



CALLING A PASTOR. 



\ 



Characters: Chairman, Mr. Doing, Mr. Cheap, Mr. 
Kweer, Mr. Phair, Mr. Wright, Mr. Vim, Mr. 
Pennyclamp, Mr. Truth, Mr. Progress, Mr. Get- 
all, Mr. Fact. 

Chairman. Gentlemen, as our church has been so long 
without a pastor, it has been thought best to call you together 
to have a full expression of opinion as to what should be 
done. It is hoped that each will speak his mind freely. Un- 
less the official members know your wishes they cannot act 
as you may desire. 

Mr. Doing. I for one am tired of being without a pastor ; 
we all need a leader in our church ; and a settled pastor is the 
only satisfactory one we can have. We all admit that ; so I 
am in favor of making the best selection possible, and mak- 
ing it at once. 

Mr. Cheap. I am in no hurry to call a minister ; it is 
cheaper as we are now. It is true that we have service only 
once in two weeks, but that has advantages. It costs only 
half as much as service each Sabbath, and enables us to hear 
other preachers ; and that costs nothing. We can get Mr. 
Muchpoor now for five dollars a Sunday ; he told me that he 
Would rather take that than nothing ; so we are doing him a 
kindness, and we can get Doctor Heavy whenever we want 
him for the same price. Indeed, I think, from what he told 
me vhen I pressed him closely, that he would sometimes be 
willing to come for nothing, if we pay his fare and keep him 
over Sunday. Both of these ministers are without charge, 
and would like to preach to keep in practice. I think that 
the officers of the church should make the best possible ar- 
rangement with these men and continue as we are doing. 

Mr. Kweer. There is reason in what brother Cheap says ; 
we are now getting our preaching at a very low rate. Five 



Calling a Pastor. 51 

dollars every two weeks, and counting out two Sundays in 
the year for vacation, will make only two hundred and fifty 
dollars a year. Why, gentlemen, we paid oar pastor a thou- 
sand dollars a year, beside house-rent free, and donation, and 
ever so many small presents ; all amounted, at the very low- 
est, to fully twelve hundred and fifty dollars ; so we are actu- 
ally clearing a thousand dollars a year by our present course. 
But that is not all ; we have service only every alternate Sab- 
bath, thus we save half the fuel and light that we use when 
we have a minister. There is another item that we are apt to 
forget ; we have no collections now for benevolence, and I 
am sure we save two hundred dollars more. Really we gave 
five hundred some years to benevolence. Counting up all 
that we save, it is safe to say that we are now saving in dol- 
lars and cents, by having no pastor, no less than fifteen hun- 
dred dollars a year. That is what I call economy. Why, it 
would support three families of workingmen in the country. 
Think of that, brethren ! 

It is true, there is another side to the matter. We only 
have service half of the time, and, if I may say it, very poor 
at that. We get our preaching cheap because others will not 
pay anything for it at all. The fact is, we are paying two 
hundred and fifty dollars for what other churches will not 
pay one cent. That is, we pay that much for half our preach- 
ing. The other half we get — well, we get as we can, and 
others pay for it. We get it as the crows obtain their living 
— in other people's corn-fields. 

It is a little troublesome to be without a minister when we 
have sick among us or a funeral. So it is with a wedding ; 
but we have good and accommodating ministers as neigh- 
bors. One of them said that he was willing to bury ail in 
our church for nothing, as it would get them out of the way 
probably for a more generous generation. Then, too, it costs 
less, at least the young people pay less fees to neighboring 
ministers than they do to their own to get married. 

Mr. C. Who pays less, I w ould like to know ? 



52 Calling a Pastor, 

Mr. K. You probably could find out by asking some of the 
neighboring clergymen who have married some of our young 
people. Ministers who marry others than their own are not 
as careful as are pastors to keep such matters secret. It has 
been intimated that some young people pay in promises and 
forget to fulfil. 

Mr. C. Such insinuations are hardly to be tolerated. I 
would like to know what the brother means ? 

Mr. K. I mean that a young man, married by a pastor not 
of his own church, asked the minister to wait for his fee until 
the next week, when he would pay. The next week, and the 
next year have passed, but the young man has not called to 
pay. 

Mr. C. I would like to know that young man's name. I 
don't believe that you can give it. 

Mr. K. You will find it the third on the list in your family 
Bible, if you keep a family record. But, Mr. Chairman, pardon 
me for saying so much, and what is seemingly irrelevant ; it 
has, however, a close relation to our business in hand. Let 
me say, in concluding my remarks, that if we wish to dis- 
grace ourselves farther in the eyes of neighboring churches 
and then ruin, as we are certainly doing, our own church, let 
us keep on as we are going. 

Mr. Phair. I am glad that Mr. Kweer has spoken as he 
has ; though it is questionable to speak of matters here that 
were better settled between an officiating clergyman and the 
parties married. We have studied economy, but have forgot- 
ten that we have honor and position to maintain. We have 
forgotten that we had other interests than those of dollars 
and cents at stake. Those interests are not to be compared 
to money. They concern our spiritual and eternal welfare ; 
and to think of weighing the soul against dollars and cents is 
to forget that we are immortal and responsible to God. 

Mr. K. Mr. Chairman, I feel that it was unkind in me to 
speak of non-payment of marriage fees, and I beg pardon of 
all concerned. But allow me to add a few words to what I 



Calling a Pastor. 53 

have said. We are, as has been said, saving money by hav- 
ing no benevolent collections ; and we are cheating ourselves 
out of the reward that the Master at last will give when He 
says, " Well done, good and faithful servant." We give noth- 
ing to the Lord's cause, so lay nothing up in heaven of our 
gains. What a poor set we will be when we get to heaven, if 
fortunate enough to reach that place. Hardly a dollar from 
our whole church for a whole year, and as many years as we 
continue our present course. I wonder if the angels will not 
set us off in a corner, and tell all the rest of the saints to 
take a look at the church that could trust in Christ for its sal- 
vation, and profess to follow Him, yet not give a dollar for 
His cause ; not a penny to show that it was grateful for sal- 
vation. 

Mr. Phair. The question, Mr. Chairman, of economy has 
been raised ; let us see if our course is so economical. It has 
been shown that we save fifteen hundred dollars a year by 
having no pastor. Of course I understand Mr. Kweer's mean- 
ing; but let me, in plain terms, show how much we save and 
lose. There are two sides to it. We have service only every 
other Sabbath, and people refuse to pay full rent for their 
pews. Many postpone paying, and some refuse to pay at all ; 
they say that they took pews on the understanding that we 
were to have a pastor, and service each Sunday. The officers 
of the church, not having kept such obligation, must not ex- 
pect others to keep theirs. Actual figures will speak better 
than my words can. The year before our pastor left, we col- 
lected from pew rents and Sabbath collections, aside from 
benevolence, a little over two thousand dollars. During the 
past year we have been able to collect four hundred and two 
dollars from pew rents and collections altogether. That is a 
net loss of sixteen hundred dollars. Probably we will be able 
to collect more pew rents, but many refuse to pay a dollar 
while we are without a pastor. They say that they wili pay 
on the collection-plate all they mean to give. They will not 
pay full pew rent for half service, nor will they pay even half 



54 Calling a Pastor. 

for such preaching as we have. It is well known to you all 
that we have not one-half the average attendance now that 
we had a year ago. We are losing not only temporarily, but 
permanently ; several families have left, and others propose 
leaving if Dr. Heavy or Mr. Muchpoor continue to supply 
the pulpit. New-comers appear once in our church, and that 
is the last we see of them. Another church gets them. We 
have added not one new family since our pastor left, but 
qu te a number have been added to the other churches. Our 
young people go to the other churches more and more, and 
are becoming attached to them, and in all probability will 
lose all love for ours. We will soon lose them. 

The fact is, brethren, that we have actually run in debt the 
past year, cheaply as we have tried to manage matters ; and 
the outlook for a larger income the present year, if we call no 
pastor, is gloomy. We have economized in the two things 
of all others that we could least afford — Sabbath services and 
preaching. We have not lessened our expenses for repairs^ 
nor for music; nor sexton, nor anything whatever, except 
preaching and services on the Sabbath, including, of course, 
fuel and light. 

Mr Vim. Why do not you pay sexton and choir and organ- 
ist half salary? They do only half work. Who is sexton ? 

Mr. C. I am ; but I cannot take less pay. I am taking the 
same care and doing nearly the same work, whether or not 
we have service each Sabbath. Indeed, in the absence of a 
minister, I must take the greater care : all the responsibility 
falls upon me. I do my best, and think that good work should 
have fair pay. The Bible says that the laborer is worthy of 
his hire. But we are not talking about a sexton : we came to 
see what we shall do about a minister. I have nothing to say 
about organist and choir ; but the sexton's office is not vacant. 

Mr. Wright. Mr. Chairman, the remarks of Mr. Kweer and 
Mr. Phair I most heartily endorse. Permit me to add a few 
facts to what has been said. Our Sabbath-school, since our 
pastor left, has been losing in interest and numbers ; the 



Calling a Pastor, 55 

Drayer- meetings have become cold and dull, and very few 
attend ; and all religious interest seems dying out in our 
church. We have added not one, either on confession or by 
irtificate, to our church membership. We have no one who 
lakes it> his or her business to call on the aged, the sick, and 
le dying. No doubt it is the duty of the officers of the 
lurch, but each of them feels that his time is all taken with 
lis own business. No one comforts the afflicted, none pray 
with the dying, or go to warn the impenitent. I admit that 
all this is the duty of all the church members, but w r e have no 
pastor to point out or urge us on to duty. I believe that our 
church, and we as individuals, will be held accountable for 
this neglect. It is a more serious matter than we think. 
God knows our position, and knows why we have no pastor ; 
and do you think He will excuse us at the judgment for this 
neglect ? I am sorry to say that my business calls me out of 
town most of the time, yet I fear that if it did not I would 
neglect, as others have done, the souls of those about us. I 
will not soon forget the dying words of poor old Sam Morris, 
a few weeks ago. You have heard, no doubt, what he said to 
me, when I called the night he died, "You are the first Chris- 
tian who has come in to see me : not one has prayed with me ; 
none of you cared for my soul : and you would not hire a 
minister to do it, because the church is too stingy to pay his 
salary/' 

I hope, Mr. Chairman, that we shall have a pastor as soon 
as one can be called and settled. We may say that it costs 
less as we are doing, though Mr. Phair has shown the con- 
trary ; yet, even should it not cost a dollar to run our church, 
as we are trying to carry on its work, it would prove in the 
end one of the most costly of experiments. We are simply 
ruining the church. But that is not all, we are ruining our 
characters as church members and Christians. We are grow- 
ing cold and indifferent to our Master and to duty; and are 
bringing up our families in the same way. What if we should 
save a few dollars in this way, who wants to save a dollar by 



56 Calling a Pastor, 

such economy, to have it haunt him through all eternity? 
No, sir, I want a pastor settled, and I am willing to pay three 
times as much as I ever have paid if we can get one for no 
less. 

Mr. Pennyclamp. I cannot agree with what has just been 
said. We are not responsible for the loss of souls. Our 
Saviour Himself said, " No man can come unto me except the 
| Father draw him," and " All that the Father hath given me 
shall come unto me." How, then, can we be responsible ? 
This talking about our sin in not caring for souls, and not 
supporting the Gospel that all may hear, has a great deal of 
untcuth in it. If we offer men the Gospel and they refuse, 
that is their business and not ours : we have done our duty, 
and there the matter should rest. They, by refusing, take all 
the responsibility from us. Yet, why should we feel it our 
duty to furnish the Gospel to everybody, and care for every 
one's soul ? We don't think it our duty to feed all whom we 
meet, nor to go out and clothe all whom we may find. If we 
attend to our own and the wants of those dependent on us, 
our duty is done : so it is with the Gospel. We furnish it for 
our own families and those near us, and then we do our duty. 
To make me responsible for the loss of a man of whom I 
know nothing, is unreasonable ; and to say that if we don't 
save men they will be lost, and we responsible for their souls, 
is to teach heresy. 

Mr. Truth. I may be a heretic, Mr. Chairman, but I would 
rather be one and save men than orthodox and neglect them. 
But it is not heresy to teach that we are responsible for the 
isouls of those around us ; nor is it unscriptural, brother 
Pennvclamp. Our Saviour also taught that, "Whosoever 
cometh unto me I will in no wise cast out." And He further 
said, "And ye will not come unto me that ye might have 
life." He also told His disciples to "Go into all the world 
and preach the Gospel to every creature." He rebuked the 
Pharisees for withholding the truth from others. We are 
told of the rewards to those who win souls, and we may infei 



Calling a Pastor. 57 

that those who neglect them will receive condemnation for 
such neglect. 

Chair. Brethren, please confine your remarks to the sub- 
ject under consideration, whether or not we call a pastor. 

Pen. Well, if others are in favor of calling a minister, I am 
not the one to refuse. I am ready, only I ask for two things. 
We must not get a man who thinks too much of money, and 
wants too high salary ; and we don't want any stuck-up young 
fellow from the seminary. Get an older man ; such will come 
cheaper, and will be ready to do all we need, and will not be 
asking an increase in salary soon. Prices are down, and I 
think we should call a man on a lower salary. We gave a 
thousand before, I think we ought to get a man for seven 
hundred now. I feel that I for one must pay less pew rent; 
so I give warning. 

Mr. Progress. I am sorry to differ from brother Penny- 
clamjD. I am not anxious for a young man, and I don't want 
a man who is a cheap one. My experience is that cheapness 
and good work never go together. Any minister who will 
come for a low price is the man we don't want. We want a 
man who believes himself worth a good salary, and who is 
willing by good, faithful work to earn it. Power, skill, brains, 
command their price in every department of work, no less in 
the ministry than elsewhere. If we want a good man we must 
pay for him. If we are willing to take up with a poor one, he 
will in the end make us pay for him, and dearly too. He may 
not cost as many dollars at first, but he will twice as many 
before we have done with him. Our church has sadly run 
down, and it will take a man of more than ordinary power 
and working force to get it back. Really, in the end we will 
find that our cheap experiment has cost us several thousand 
dollars before we are through with it. 

Mr. Getall. I am pained to hear such words as those to 
which we have just listened. Price has no place in the 
Gospel work and with the ministry. The Bible tells us that 
the Gospel is "without money and without price." Our 



58 Calling a Pastor. 

Saviour did not preach for money, nor did His disciples : and 
the early ministers, as I am informed, were content with the 
voluntary gifts of a loving people. I wish that we could go 
back to those primitive times. 

Mr. Fact. That would be impossible, brother Getall, as all 
that class of ministers died long ago, and Providence does 
not seem to think it safe to trust the church with any more. 
It is true that Christ and the apostles asked no salary ; would 
they have got it had they asked ? They did not ask for 
martyrdom either, but they got that. They are not the ex- 
amples in this respect to the ministry of the present. Christ 
and the apostles, however, taught that the minister was worthy 
of his salary. 

Mr. Get. Oh, I would not oppose giving a minister a fair 
salary ; on the contrary, I would give a good living support ; 
yet I hate to hear so much said about money in this matter. 
Ministers and Gospel workers should live by faith. Thaf is 
Scripture. 

Mr. F. Yes, it is for the minister ; but not less for every 
Christian. We are all to live by faith, but the apostle tells us 
that faith without works is dead. And I tell you, brother 
Getall, the minister who tries to live on faith alone will soon 
be dead, too, 

Mr. Vim. Gentlemen, I am not a member of the church, 
but am interested in it, and want to see it prosper. I have 
listened to all that has been said, and am convinced that the 
church should have a pastor, and a good one. I believe in 
paying a good price for a good article. A poor article costs 
too much to buy. It is the best policy to get the best pos- 
sible. You have paid one thousand dollars a year hereto- 
fore, with parsonage and donation ; let me suggest that you 
pay two thousand now, and see if in the end it be not cheaper. 

Mr. C. Two thousand ! Why, we can get four good minis- 
ters for that! Two thousand dollars for a minister! Why, 
that will buy half a farm ! Two thousand dollars a year ! That 
is awful ! 



Calling a Pastor. 59 

Mr. V. Mr. Cheap, how much salary do you pay? 

Mr. C. I — I ? Why, I am sexton. I don't pay any salary. 

Mr. V. How much salary do you get? 

Mr. C. One hundred dollars a year, only. 

Mr. V. How much time do you give to your work ? But I 
know. You give less than ten hours a week, as you told me 
a few days ago. And you do all this outside of your regular 
business on your farm. So it is merely extra work, most of it 
done in the evening and on Sunday. Let me ask, Would you 
be a sexton at the price you are receiving, if you must give 
one day in the week to it ? 

Mr. C. No, sir ; I would not for twice that amount. 

Mr. V. That is, you would want two hundred dollars a year 
for the service of one day of ten hours each week ; that would 
be at the rate of twelve hundred dollars a year. Now, let me 
ask, How many years of preparation did it require to fit you 
for the office of sexton ? 

Mr. C. Preparation ? Why, not one year ; nor one day. Of 
course I did not know all at once, but it was not hard to learn ; 
and I did the work at once, 

Mr. V. Well, a minister requires from six to eight, and even 
ten years of close study and hard work to prepare himself for 
his work ; and yet you would have him work for less than half 
what you would demand for work that needs almost no prep- 
aration. But, gentlemen, I will not take your time. I am 
not a Christian ; I am not all that the moral law requires, but 
I feel the need of a pastor. If I am no: all I should be, it is 
not that I have no desire to become better. I want a man 
who will preach to me fearlessly and faithfully my duty, and 
tell me the worst, no matter whether or not I will heed. For 
such a man I am willing to pay five hundred dollars a year. 
If you will call one for two thousand, and cannot make up the 
money at the end of the year, providing he is a faithful, fear- 
less man, I will see that what is lacking in his salary is paid. 

Mr. Pen. Worldly wisdom, Mr. Chairman, is a dangerous 
thing in a church. 



60 Calling a Pastor. 

Mr. K. Common sense is not, though. I am glad that Mr. 
Vim is ready to help us, and so wisely and liberally. He has 
more means than I, but I will take with him my share of what 
is lacking at the end of the year, providing his suggestion is 
carried out. 

Mr. Doing. I move that the church officers be advised to 
at once select the best man, after learning all they can as to 
his fitness for the pastorate of our church, and call him at a 
salary of two thousand dollars. 

Mr. Pro. I second the motion. 

Mr. Pen. Mr. Chairman, I want to say a word before the 
motion is put. I am willing to submit to the will of the ma- 
jority, but with this condition, that the new minister shall 
preach the Gospel, and not this and that thing outside of it. 

Chair. It is to be hoped that he will be a Gospel preacher, 
for we want no other. 

Mr. Pen. Yes, but some will preach everything, and say it 
is the Gospel. Now, I want no temperance fanatic. I want 
the Gospel in all its purity, and nothing about the differences 
in the wines of the Bible, and all that. Temperance may have 
a place in a society, but not in a pulpit. 

Mr. Get. I agree with brother Pennyclamp ; I want no 
temperance preached to me. I am a temperance man, and 
know my duty without being told it. I won't stand that con- 
stant hammering about distilleries and apple-whiskey-mak- 
ing. If the Lord gives us apples and a market at the distil- 
leries where we can get a fair price for the fruits He gives us, 
I don't want a minister to tell me that I have sinned like 
Achan. What is more, I won't stand it. Mr. Clark, our former 
minister, did it once too often. 

Mr. C. I agree with the two who have spoken last. Mr. 
Clark went too far. We had apples, and there was no market 
for them except at the still. Were we to neglect and allow to 
rot the blessings a kind Providence had given ? No, sir ! I 
sold mine and got the money for them, nor did my conscience 
reprove me, either, until Mr. Clark preached that sermon on 






The Stolen Knife. 61 



aiding the cause of intemperance. That he meant me, I knew 
from the first, and I took it. Had I not been sexton I would 
have left the church. I want nothing more of such preaching. 

Mr. K. If each one is to tell the new minister what he is 
and what he is not to preach, I imagine that we will have 
rather an easy time, until we wake up at the judgment ; and 
then we will all take to blaming the preacher for hiding the 
truth. Brethren, would you tell the doctor what medi- 
cines you wanted him to give to your child if it were at the 
point of death ? No, indeed. You would say, Save my child, 
doctor, by any remedy you can use. So a minister comes to 
rescue the sick souls. Don't hamper or hinder him by any 
restrictions. If he is God's servant, it will be little use to tell 
him what to say and what to leave unsaid. He will tell the 
truth. Let him do it. If it hits and hurts, look and see what 
caused the pain. A finger touch on an inflamed spot hurts 
terribly, but is hardly felt where the body is sound. 

C. Are you ready for the question ? All in favor, say Aye. 

All {except Cheap, Pennyclamp, and Get all). Aye. 

C. Contrary minded, No. {Silence?) It is carried. 



THE STOLEN KNIFE. 

Characters : Bennie and Johnnie, two small boys. 

Bennie. Johnnie, whose knife is that that you had this 
morning? 

Johnnie. That was mine. 

B. Where did you get it ? 

J. Oh, I got it. 

B. But where ? You are not afraid to tell me, are you ? 

J. What should I be afraid of ? But can't a fellow have a 
knife or anything without telling everybody about it ? 



62 The Stolen Knife. 

B. Yes ; yet you know that Jim Turner's knife is gone, 
and ho one knows where it is. 

J. How should I know about Jim's knife? If he loses it I 
can't help it. He must not be so careless. 

B. Johnnie, I don't want you to get mad at me ; but that 
knife that you had looks like Jim's. 

j. Well, it is not Jim's. It's mine. 

B. Will you let me see it ? 

J. What do you want to see my knife for? Just as likely 
as not you will think it is Jim's, and tell the boys that I 
"stole it. 

B. No, I won't, Jim's knife had "J. E. T." cut on the 
handle, and how could I say it is his if it didn't have those 
letters on ? 

J. Well, my knife has no letters on at all. 

B. Then why are you so afraid to let me see it ? 

J. {handing him a knife). There; now see if it's got letters 
on the handle. 

B. Johnnie, did you cut on this handle? The knife looks 
like Jim's, only there are no letters on the handle ; but it ap- 
pears as if some one had cut them off. 

J. Looks as if some one had cut them off? How do you 
know ? There are lots of knives like Jim's, and, just because 
mine has a rough handle to hold fast to better, you think I 
stole his knife and cut off the letters. 

B. O, Johnnie ! How do you know what I think ? I do 
not think that you stole the knife. 

J. You act as though you thought so, anyway. But why 
do you bother me with so many questions ? 

B. I will tell you why if you will tell me where you got 
that knife. 

J. I found it. There, now. 

B. Found it ? When and where did you find it ? 

J. O dear, Ben, I should think that you would get tired of 
asking questions. I am. 

B. Johnnie, I will tell you why I ask them. Somebody told 



The Stolen Knife. 63 

Jim that you had a knife that you was afraid to let any one 
see, and that it looked just like Jim's. Then Jim said he be- 
lieved you had stolen his. Then I told Jim that you did not 
steal ; and that if you had a knife that looked like his, you 
got it honestly. So I wanted to know all about it, that I 
might prove that my brother is not a thief. 

J. Do the boys believe that I have Jim's knife ? 

B. Some do. 

J. Do they think that I stole it ? 

B. I don't know ; I hope none do. Now tell me, Johnnie, 
is that Jim's knife ? 

J. Yes, Ben, I'll tell you. I found it on the playground, 
near the school-room. 

B. Didn't you know it was Jim's? Were not the letters 
on ? 

J. Yes, Bennie, I'll tell you all about it, for I want Jim to 
have his knife back again. It seems so heavy that I cannot 
carry it in my pocket any longer. When I first found the 
knife I meant to give it to Jim right away ; but he had gone 
home, so I kept it till next morning. Then I thought I would 
try it; and Tom saw me have it. 

B. What Tom ? Our hired man ? 

J. Yes. Then he said, " Let's see your knife. Did you 
find it ?" I said, "Yes." Then he said, "You might as well 
keep it ; you found it and it is yours. I'll just cut off the let- 
ters and put your own on, and no one will know but that it 
is yours." 

B. Didn't you try to stop him ? 

J. No ; not at first I thought it would be so nice to have 
a knife of my own, so I let him cut off the letters ; but I would 
not let him put mine on. Bennie, I wish that I had stopped him 
right away, for I have felt so mean ever since that I did not 
want to see anybody. I'm glad that I have told you ; but I 
did not want any one to know about it first, I felt so bad. 

B. I am sorry, Johnnie ; but why did not you give Jim his 
knife when you saw him afterwards ? 



64 Coloring with Whiskey. 

j. Because, you know, I did not go to school the next 
day ; and after Tom talked about the knife being mine, I 
wanted to keep it at first, but soon felt so mean about it that 
I was ashamed to give it back. I tell you, Beu, if folks feel 
half as mean when they steal as I did to half steal, I don't 
know how any one can steal twice. I'd rather be whipped 
every five minutes for a week than keep another knife. 



COLORING WITH WHISKEY. 

Characters : Mary, a small girl, and Annie, a larger one. 

Mary (dipping a doll's dress into water, in a small tub). 
Oh, Annie, what did you come here for? Wait a little while. 

Annie. Why, Mamie, what are you doing ? 

M. Oh, I have found out something, but I don't want to 
tell yet ; wait, and I'll tell you all by and by. 

A. {as Mary turns her back to the tub, trying to hide her 
work). What are you doing? Why are you trying to hide 
your work ? 

M. If you promise not to tell, I'll let you know. It's real 
nice, and I mean to show you, too, when I have done it. 

A. I will promise not to tell, unless it be wrong. You 
would not have me keep from mamma anything that she ought 
to know. 

M. Oh, mamma won't care ; she told me about it. It is 
nothing wrong ; it is only a secret, and I want to surprise you 
all. 

A. Then I promise ; so tell me, will you ? {Smelling the 
liquid in the tub.) Were you washing ? But that is not water. 
It smells like liquor. What is it, Mamie ? 

M. It is not water, and I was not washing ; I was dyeing 
dolly's clothes. 



Coloring with Whiskey. 65 

A. Dyeing dolly's clothes ? What are you coloring them 
with ? 

M. That is the secret. I'll tell if you promise not to let 
any one know until I have done it. 

A. Yes ; I promise not to tell if there be no wrong in what 
you are doing. 

M. I am coloring dolly's dress, the new silk one, with 
whiskey and water. 

A. Whiskey and water. Who told you that that would 
color it ? Where did you get the whiskey ? 

M. Tom, the gardener, gave me some. I asked him, but 
he would not let me have any at first, until I told what I 
wanted it for. I told him that I wanted it to put on dolly's 
dress. He said that whiskey is not good for girls and women. 
If it is not good for them, I don't see how it can be good for 
men. Tom said it is not good for some men, and that it is 
only now and then that it is good for anybody. 

A. I suppose he thinks that it is good for him when he is 
thirsty. I wish papa would make Tom stop drinking ; I mean 
to tell him that Tom keeps liquor around. 

M. Oh, don't do that ; at least don't tell that I told about 
Tom, or he will not give me any more. Then I can't color 
the rest of dolly's things. I got only a little bit to try. 

A. What made you think that whiskey will color anything ? 
It won't color at all. 

M. Yes it will ; mamma said it would ; so, there. 

A. Mamma said it would ? Why,- Mamie, mamma could not 
have told you that in earnest. Whiskey cannot color anything 
except, perhaps, to stain it. It is as clear as water. How did 
mamma come to tell you that whiskey would color anything? 

M. I don't care what you say ; she did tell me, and I know 
it does ; I have seen it. 

A. What color does it give ? 

M. Oh, lots of colors ; Harry and I have looked and 
counted. We have seen almost as many as ten shades and 
colors that whiskey made. 
5 



66 Coloring with Whiskey, 

A. I cannot see how that can be. When did mamma tell 
you ? Was not she joking ? 

M. No ; she meant what she said. She was talking as 
seriously as could be. Harry and I asked her what made old 
Joe Blum's nose so red, and she said it was whiskey. We asked 
how Peter Wark came to have such a red face, and she told 
us that whiskey did it. We wanted to know how old Mr. 
Brown came to have such a purple nose, and mamma told us 
that whiskey made it look so. We asked how Jim Watson 
came to have such bluish spots on his nose and face, and she 
said that whiskey gave them. 

A. But did mamma tell you that whiskey would color silk ? 

M. No ; but I thought that it would, if it would color faces 
and noses so much. They are a great deal harder to color 
than silk is. 

A. So, because whiskey colors men's faces and noses, you 
think it will do the same with your dolly's dresses, do you ? 

M. Yes ; and if I try long enough I cannot only color them 
pink and red, but purple and blue, and ever so many other 
shades. Mamma said that Mr. Brown's nose became purple, 
and Jim Watson's face and nose blue, because they had used 
whiskey so long. So Harry and I have watched, and we think 
that the more whiskey people use, or the longer they have 
used it, the darker red, then purple, and at last blue, their 
faces will grow. If it does that to faces it will to dresses ; so 
I meant to leave dolly's dress in whiskey until it changed 
from pink to red ; and then, after a while, I meant to put it 
in again, and change it to purple ; and when I am tired of 
purple, then I will try it in whiskey again, and make it blue. 
Won't that be nice ? v. 

A. You simpleton; whiskey don't color that way at all. 

M. Mamma said it would, and she is older and knows more 
than you. She said it was whiskey that colored their noses 
and faces. 

A. But she did not mean that it colored as a dye does. No 
doubt it was that which caused their faces to become pink 






Women s Views on the Panic. 67 

and red and purple, but it did it by poisoning the blood. 
Whiskey is a poison to the whole body. When people are 
affected in that way it shows that they have been poisoned 
by it. 

M. Is that the way it does ? Mamma did not say anything 
about the poison ; she only said that whiskey caused such 
colors. So I thought that if it colored one thing it would 
another. 

A. Mamma would have told had you asked. But I guess 
that you wanted to surprise us all, and asked no more ques- 
tions than you could help, lest your plan be suspected. Is 
not that so ? You wanted to surprise us with your new and 
bright colors, did you not ? 

M. Yes, that was it. Then whiskey is a poison, and will 
not color silk or dresses or such things ? The horrid stuff ! 
It is good for nothing but to make people drunk, and to look 
as horrid as they act. I don't want anything more to do with 
it. You can tell papa about Tom having whiskey, for all that 
I care. If it poisons others it will poison him, and Tom is 
too nice to be poisoned. 



WOMEN'S VIEWS ON THE PANIC. 

Characters: Mrs. Smith, a retired bankers wife ; Mrs. 
Brown, a lawyer's wife, and Mrs. Jones, a farmer s wife. 

Mrs. Jones. Mrs. Smith, what do folks mean by this 
panache ? Is it a disease, or what is it ? 

Mrs. Smith. No, it is trouble in the financial market. 

Mrs. J. Fin and shell market! D6es that mean fish and 
clams, and oysters, and such market ? 

Mrs. S. No, no ; it is not fin and shell, but financial mar* 
ket. 



68 Women s Views on the Panic, 

Mrs. Brown. The stock market, Mrs. Jones. 

Mrs. J. Stock market! Oh, I see; that's where they sell 
cattle, and sheep, and such. Well, what's the trouble ? Won't 
animals sell? are they sick, or what? 

Mrs. B. No, Mrs. Jones, not that kind of stock at all. It 
is in the railroad and bank stock where the trouble is. 

Mrs. J. Railroad stock ! Oh, the horses that pull the 
railroad cars in the city. But I didn't know that banks kept 
stock, though I believe the cashier of the bank keeps a cow. 
Is it anything like the horse disease ? 

Mrs. S. Oh, Mrs. Jones, it is not cattle or horses at all. 
The trouble is about money. 

Mrs. J. Money? Well, why don't people say so, instead 
of talking about financial panache and stock market ? But why 
on earth do they call it panache f Does it make people feel 
anything like headache or toothache ? 

Mrs. S. Dear me, Mrs. Jones, it is not panache, but panic. 
Money is tight, and people are alarmed. 

Mrs. J. Well they may be. But do tell : does money get 
tight ? I know that folks do ; and so did our pigs and 
chickens when we gave them brandied cherries, but I never 
heard that money did. 

Mrs. B. {laughing). Mrs. Jones, the trouble is that business 
men cannot get money to carry on their business. 

Mrs. J. Oh, now I understand. When people talk about 
panic, financial crisis, and money being tight, they mean that 
money is scarce, 

Mrs. B. Yes ; that is it. 

Mrs. J. Now, can you tell me why money is scarce ? Has 
much been destroyed or taken out of the country? 

Mrs. B. No ; I think not. 

Mrs. J. Then if there's the same amount of money that 
there was before the pa'nic, what makes it scarce ? 

Mrs. S. That is the difficul y ; no one seems to know. 

Mrs. B. Don't banks have money ? 

Mrs. S. Yes ; and they keep it, too. 






Women's Views on the Panic. 69 



Mrs. B. Don't you suppose there are many people who 
have money and keep it, too ? 

Mrs. S. No doubt of it. But we all try to keep our money, 
you know. 

Mrs. B. Then do not all help make the panic ? 

Mrs. S. Yes ; it seems that each one tries to collect all the 
money he can, and yet will not lend to his neighbor. 

Mrs. J. Then a panic is an epidemic of selfishness. 

Mrs. S. Hardly that. Every one is afraid to lend to his 
neighbor, for fear that the neighbor will fail, and the money 
be lost. 

Mrs. B. Why, that is the best way to make him fail. Why 
not lend, and keep him from failing ? 

Mrs. S. Oh, people have no confidence in each other. 
Banks and companies are suspending, and all are afraid of 
each other. 

Mrs. B. Why do all lack confidence now? It surely was 
not so always ? 

Mrs. S. No. It has only been so since the panic began. 

Mrs. J. How did the panic begin ? What made it ? 

Mrs. S. I do not know. No one seems to know. 

Mrs. J. I wouldn't wonder it was just as it used to be with 
us when we went out to steal strawberries. Some one would 
call out, "The old man is coming," and away we would start 
for home. We never stopped or looked back ; and if we 
heard footsteps near we ran all the harder, thinking sure 
enough the old man is coming. And all the time there was 
no old man coming at all. We knew that we were stealing 
strawberries, and thought that an old man ought to catch us. 
So we need but hear " old man " and we were off, nor did we 
stop until we had lost all the berries stolen. 

Mrs. B. Mrs. Jones, I believe there is a great deal of truth 
in that ; no doubt that dishonesty has made many afraid ; 
they are suspicious of others because not upright themselves. 

Mrs. S. But that would hardly apply to banks and com- 
panies. 



yo Women s Views on the Panic. 

Mrs. B. Yet they are controlled by men ; and men are the 
same all the world over. 

Mrs. J. Women are not, though. But, Mrs. Smith, you 
say banks are suspending. What do they suspend ? 

Mrs. S. Suspend payment ; they don't pay. 

Mrs. J. Why is that? 

Mrs. S. Oh, they say if they keep on paying, every one will 
come and demand his money ; and they will have none to do 
business with. 

Mrs. J. So they stop business right away for fear they 
must stop by and by. That is just as if my husband should 
say to me, " Mary, men are eloping with other men's wives, 
and I may have to soon, so I will go now." What would I 
think of him ? Why, I should say : " If you are such a fool, 
go on." 

Mrs. S. I think, Mrs. Jones, that you do not understand 
it fully. 

Mrs. J. Sometimes, when banks and companies suspend 
and don't go on again, what becomes of the money then ? 

Mrs. S. I am sure I don't know. It gets lost, I suppose. 

Mrs. J. Did you ever know of much money getting lost 
and no one finding it ? The money goes somewhere, and 
somebody knows where, too — depend on that. 

Mrs. S. That may be, of course. 

Mrs. J. Mrs. Smith, your husband was in a bank once, and 
you know something about banks ; can you tell me about 
their suspending ? 

Mrs. S. Yes ; my husband was in a bank once, but he re 
signed his position as cashier before the bank failed. 

Mrs. J. Do banks often fail after cashiers resign ? 

Mrs. S. (indignantly). What do you mean ? 

Mrs. J. Oh, nothing ; I only asked. 

Mrs. B. Mrs. Jones, banks take care of people's money 
and put it out at interest for them. Sometimes during a 
panic all the people demand their money at once. The bank 
then may be unable to collect it, and so suspends for a while. 



Riches in Heaven. 71 

Mrs. J. Supposing that the bank fails, what becomes of 
the money then ? 

Mrs. B. It is lost. The people who gave it to the banks 
must lose it. 

Mrs. J. I see ; it is this way : Suppose you have a bank, 
Mrs. Brown ; I give you a thousand dollars now to keep for 
me; in a month there comes a panic. I say : Mrs. Brown, I 
want that money. You say : You can't have it ; I have sus- 
pended. The panic goes by, and you tell me you have failed 
and cannot pay me. My money is lost, but I know how. You 
have used it. 

Mrs. B. Well, that is the way some people look at it. 

Mrs. J. Yes ; and some people are often right. No won- 
der that people like to be in banks. Wish my husband had 
had a bank before this panic. I would not have to attend to 
cows, and pigs, and chickens, now. Mrs. Brown, do you 
think we will have another panic soon ? If we do I want my 
husband to get in a bank somewhere before it begins. 



RICHES IN HEAVEN. 

Characters : Jennie and her Uncle. 

Jennie, Uncle, are you rich ? Brother Tom says you are. 

Uncle. What is it to be rich, Jennie ? 

J. That is what I wish to know, Tom says it is to have 
lots of money and plenty of nice things. Is that what it is to 
be rich ? 

U. Yes ; I suppose so. 

J. Are you rich, Uncle ? Have you lots of money and nice 
things ? 

J. Yes ; I have money, a nice house and pictures, and 
other pretty things ; so I suppose that people call me rich. 



72 Riches in Heaven. 

J. Is it nice to be rich ? Tom says it is. He says that he 
means to be rich too. 

U. It is a good thing to have enough money. 

J. Have you got enough ? Don't you want any more ? 

U. No ; not enough, Jennie. I could use more if I had it. 

J. How much is enough ? When will you have enough ? 

U. I do not know. In a few years, I hope. 
\ J . Do people often get enough money ? 

U. Not very often. 

J. Uncle, what do you do with the money that you don't 
use right away ? 

U. I put it into banks, buy shares in railroads ana other 
things, and lend it to people who pay me for the use of it. 

J . Uncle, will you ever use all of your money up ? 

U. I hope not. 

J . What will you do with what is left over ? 

U. Ah, you little puss, do you want it then ? 

J. I want it, Uncle? It will not be mine. 

U. But suppose I give it to you, it will be yours then, will 
it not? 

J . I suppose so ; but I was not thinking of that. I was 
thinking what you will do for money when you leave this 
world. Will you have any money then, Uncle ? 

U. No, I presume not. People never take their money 
along with them. 

J. Will it not be hard, Uncle, for you who have had so 
much here, to do without money in the next world ? 

U. No harder than it will be for others. But what do you 
mean, child ? 

J. But, Uncle, papa read this morning about laying up 
tre sires in heaven. What does that mean ? Have you any 
treasure there ? 

U. I am afraid not, Jennie. 

J. Then you will be very poor if you leave all behind ? 

U I suppose so. 

J. Uncle, cannot you get some of your money there, so 






Playing Saloon. 73 

that you may not be so poor? I mean to go to heaven, and 
don't want people to say, " There is Jennie's Uncle Abram, 
who was so rich on earth, but he did not send a single dollar 
here. He is the poorest man in heaven." 

U. Jennie, why do you ask me those questions ? 

J. Because I love my Uncle, and don't want the people of 
heaven to look down on him, and say that he could be rich 
in the world, but did not know how to take any of his riches 
to heaven. 

U. Well, Jennie, you have made me think. 

J. Will you do, too, Uncle ? 

U. I will try, Jennie, 



PLAYING SALOON. 

Characters : Alfred, Bennie, Charlie, David, Edward, 
James, Annie, Bessie, Carrie, Delia, Mattie, and 
Lena. (Any number of others may be in the company?) 

Alfred. Say, boys and girls, let us play saloon. It will be 
lots of fun ; what do you say ? 

Bennie. What kind of saloon? I don't mind playing eat- 
ing-saloon, but would just as lief have nothing to do with a 
drinking or a gambling saloon. 

Alfred. I don't know anything about gambling ; but let us 
play drinking-saloon. I will keep it, and you boys come in to 
drink; then some of the girls can come in as your wives to 
coax you home. 

Annie. Oh, that is too bad a kind of play for us. We see 
too much of real saloons to want to play keeping them. It 
is awful to se^ the men drunk, and hear them curse and 
swear. And then, to see their wives come in and coax them 
to come home, and cry because the men won't go — oh, it is 
enough to make any one cry. 



74 Playing Saloon. 

Jennie. We will only be playing it, Annie, and can stop when 
we want to. I don't like liquor-saloons either, and keep away 
from them as much as 1 can ; but I don't mind playing one 
for a while. 

Bessie. Let us try it, Annie ; we will stop if it is not nice. 

Charlie. Mother says that we must have nothing to do 
with saloons or drinking. She says that if we become ac- 
quainted with evil we will fear it less, and by and by begin to 
like it. 

Carrie. She is right, too ; yet I don't see any harm in this ; 
we will not drink or even see drink ; we will only play. 

Alfred. That is so; we won't have any drink or anything 
that will make you drunk. Everything will be make-believe. 
Shall we try ? 

All. Yes ; go ahead. 

Jessie. How will you begin, Alf ? 

Alfred. I will keep saloon, and the boys come in to drink 
as in a real saloon, then the girls come to take them away. 

David. You will want a temperance man ; let me be that 
one. 

Boys. No ; I will be the temperance man. 

Alfred. Somebody's got to drink or there can be no saloon. 
Let Dave be the temperance man, and the rest of you the 
topers. If we could have one woman to drink now, like old 
Nancy Bowers, it would be fun. 

Bennie. No, sir ; don't let any of the girls play that they are 
drunk. None of us will ever think half as much of them 
afterwards, even if it's only make-believe. A girl who swears 
or drinks or smokes, even in fun, is a girl that I don't want 
anything to do with. Good girls can't get so low ; and any 
girl that tries to go down will find that she can't get back 
where she was. 

Alfred. See here, Ben ; you will spoil all th% fun, if you ob- 
ject to everything. But I say, too, let the girls stay outside 
and not drink. They are too good for that. 

Edward. Let us begin. But what are you going to do for 



Flaying Saloon. 75 

drink, and for bottles, and a bar, and things, Alf ? You will 
need lots of kinds of liquor. 

Alfred. I've got that all fixed. I did it before you came ; I 
knew you would be willing to try. That table will do for a 
bar, and the big box for shelves. Then I put water into bot- 
tles and colored it with different things ; it's all ready. 

Edward. Well, let us bring out. the things and help Alf set 
up his saloon. Where are your bottles ? 

Alfred. Here they are. (Alf and the other boys soon set out 
the small table and put the box In place, with a number of bot- 
tles containing colored water in them.) Now I am ready. 

Bennie. So are we ; but we've got to have wives according 
to the program, and how is that to be done ? I have had no 
experience in that. 

Edward. Who will be mine ? But, boys, this looks a little 
too much like business and less like play. Say, girls, who 
will be my wife, to bring me out of the saloon and lift me out 
of the gutter ? 

Bessie. You boys must choose for yourselves. If we are 
not good enough to be chosen we will stay single. 

Charlie. But to choose would be showing partialitv. Any 
of you will De good enough for me. 

Annie. We may ask, are you boys, if you mean to become 
drinking men, good enough for us ? I would not take a man 
if I knew that he meant to drink. But this is make-believe 
only. 

David. The temperance man will not need a wife, of course. 

Bennie. Why not ? He is just the one to support a wife, 
and set a good example to us fellows who can't. 

David. Drunkards need wives to take care of them. A 
temperance man ought to be able to care for himself without 
help. 

Alfred. Come, let us begin, or the time will all be gone. 
You boys settle which girl each shall have. We are all friends, 
and it will not make any difference which one chooses which. 
Bessie, you be the wife of the saloon-keeper. 



y6 Playing Saloon, 

Bessie. What shall I do ? 

Alfred. Just what a saloon-keeper's wife should do. 

Bessie. Then you will let me do what I want to, will you, 
Alf? 

Alfred. Yes ; but come, let us begin. Charlie, you take 
Annie. 

Charlie. May be she will not be taken. 

Annie. I don't care ; I am willing. 

Charlie. That fixes me off; now you boys go ahead. If 
getting a wife be as easy as that, I do not see why people are 
so bashful about it. 

Mattie. I don't want to play this. Cannot the rest of you 
play and let me look on ? 

Lena. Let me, too. You don't need so many to play sa- 
loon, anyway. 

Alfred. I suppose we can ; but it will spoil half the fun to 
have so many left out. The more who go to a saloon the 
better will it be. 

Bennie. I suppose I must look up somebody ; who shall 
I get? 

Alfred. Take Carrie ; she is your sister, and no one can 
tease you about it. You will go with him, won't you, Carrie ? 

Carrie. Yes, I don't care, if Bennie is satisfied. 

Bennie. Satisfied, is it ? I guess that my sister is as good 
as any one else's sister ; and if anybody is to stop me drink- 
ing, no one better than my little sister can be found. So go 
ahead, Alf ; bring out your poison, and let us see what kind 
of a man-killer you will make. You are too good a fellow, 
though, to have anything to do with the stuff. If liquor must 
be sold, why don't the Government choose the meanest ras- 
cals in the world to do it ? It is too mean a business to set 
a good man at. But we are only playing. 

Charlie. If we are to play we had better begin. Set out 
your drinks, Alf. And you girls will have to get out ; a sa- 
loon is no place for women. 

Edward. Hold on ; I have no one to take care of me. De- 



Playing Saloon. 77 

lia, suppose you be the good angel to draw me away from 
danger. 

Delia. I am willing, if I need not pull very hard. I am 
not over strong, you* know. 

Bennie. Now, come ; you girls go out, or the show will 
come to an end before the doors are open. {Girls leave.) 
Now, Alf, I am ready to buy your poison. Come, men, what 
will you have ? This saloon-keeper has all kinds of poison 
and crazy medicine. Each kind is warranted to kill within 
the time set, or make such fools of you that none of you will 
know himself. Come, who will take his chance at my cost? 
If you want a sure-kill dose, this man will give it ; or if you 
want only enough to make you a first-class fool, he will at- 
tend to your wants. It is very cheap ; you can get a killing 
dose for half a dollar, or just enough to change you into a 
first-class fool for a quarter. Who would not try ? 

Charlie. I will take a glass of soda-water. 

Alfred. Don't keep temperance drinks here, young man. 
I can give you brandy and soda. That is what some men 
take and mean when they ask for soda-water. Have some ? 

Charlie. Yes, I suppose so ; but why can't we have what 
we want ? I don't like even the name of brandy. 

Alfred. See here, young man, you must get over such ideas 
in a saloon. People who come here soon get used to every- 
thing they see and hear. 

Bennie. Kind of a school of sin, ain't it, Mister ? Got to 
learn the rules and the lesson, too, if we go to the school ? 
(Ttf Charlie.) Better do it, young man, or take lessons from 
another teacher. 

Charlie. Then give me a glass of brandy, rum, gin, whis- 
key, and Jersey lightning, mixed. If I've got to learn, let me 
take it at one lesson and have done with it. It may be that 
one poison will fight the other and I will escape. 

Alfred. I can mix that for you, but warn you that it will 
make you sick. {Aside.) But it is not my business to care for. 
the good of my customers; I am after their money. I give 



78 Playing Saloon. 

them what they ask for and ask no questions. {Mixing ft o?n 
five bottles?) Here you are. 

Charlie {taking the glass, throws its contents out of the win- 
dow). There, I've taken my drink and put it where it will do 
not the most good, but the least harm. 

Bennie. Oh, see here, Charlie, that won't do ; you will 
spoil the play. You ought to have made believe drink. But 
no matter, if you only carry out the rest of the program. I 
hate to seem even to drink. But what will the rest of you 
have ? 

Edward. Give me a glass of lager ; lots of church people 
drink that, and some say it is good. I've seen them a little 
top-heavy on it, though. {Takes his glass, and after pretend- 
ing to drink, hands it back?) Say, you saloon man, here's some 
left ; you can give that to the first tramp that comes along. 

Bennie. It is about time that I take my choice ; but I wish 
that the girls would come in. Oh, there is Jim. Here, Jim, 
you quiet fellow, come take a drink; it may set your tongue 
wagging. It will almost make a mummy talk— that is, if he 
were foolish enough to get it down. What will you have, 
Jim ? Come, Dave, you try a bit of sarsaparilla. You are a 
temperance man, and that is a temperance drink. You can 
get it here — that is, the kind they keep here. Come along, 
I say. 

David. Thank you, I don't drink. I am not of that kind. 
I just look on. 

Edward. Not the horrible example, I hope ? 

James. I will take a glass of — what shall I say, Ben ? I 
don't know about these things. I never was in a real saloon 
in my life. 

Bennie. Take a glass of half-and-half. 

James. What is that ? 

Bennie. Half water and half empty. That will do you no 
harm. 

James. I'll take that ; but I am not thirsty. 

Bennie. Take the top half, then. But I must take my drink 



Playing Saloon, 79 

or I may be taken out of this as sober as a mule — no, owl. 
People say as drunk as a boiled owl. I guess that must be 
the only time an owl can be made drunk, when he is boiled 
and can't help himself. Give me a — well, give me a glass of 
whiskey. 

Edward. There come the girls. Say, Jim, who is your wife ? 

James. Have none. They forgot me, I guess. What'll I do ? 

Bennie. Just as other old bachelors do, drink yourself to 
death, or get married by way of insurance and safety. 

Carrie {girls enter, BESSIE going to the side of the table near 
Alf.) Oh, Bennie, are you here yet? Won't you come home 
with me ? It is so lonely there without you that I can't stay. 
The children are to bed, and I'm afraid. They coaxed me to 
come after you, and I promised that I would if they would 
only go to sleep. They had been crying for you. They said 
that they could not go to sleep every night without a kiss 
from papa. Then, too, they had to go to bed hungry. Please 
come home with me, and don't spend all your wages for drink. 
Don't let the little ones starve ; they have gone to bed so 
often of late without supper. Please come home to-night. 

Bennie. See here, Carrie, this is no place for a woman like 
you. You are too good. Go home now. There, that's a good 
girl. I will come soon. I want to attend to some business 
here first. 

Carrie. I will wait until you are ready. I don't want to go 
alone, it is so dark. And then it is so dark and -cold in the 
house. I put out the lamp so that the oil would not all be 
gone. The fire is out, and it is cold there. I had no more 
wood to kindle any, and the coal is gone, too. Won't you 
come now, Bennie ? Or if you must attend to your business, 
will you do it quick ? I d^n't want to stay here. 

Bennie. Yes, Carrie, I will go with you now. I won't come 
back, either. No fire, nothing to eat, and the children going 
to bed hungry ; and you, poor, good soul, sitting there freez- 
ing and starving alone in the cold and dark while I am wast- 
ing my time and money here — is that what I got you for ? Is 



80 Playing Saloon. 

that all you are good for ? Did I get you to be my worse than 
slave? But that is what you have been to me. Yes, and I 
let you suffer alone, and in silence. But here it stops. What 
there is left of me you shall have, and not the saloon-keeper. 
Come, Carrie. 

Annie {to Charlie). What are you doing here this time 
of night ? Come right home, or I will see that you come 
without calling. Do you hear ? Take yourself off, or I will 
take you. {Taking him by the arm.) Come right along, I say. 
Here have I waited half the night for you, and you have been 
carousing and drinking in this dirty place. Come along, I say. 

Alfred {stepping out and taki?tg Annie by the arm). Hold 
on, woman. 

Annie. That is what I mean to do ; and just you hold off, 
if you know what is for your good. This man is my husband, 
and you have no claim on him. 

Alfred. This is my place, and I mean to see that no one is 
forced out of it against his will. Let him have his way, or I 
will call the police. 

Annie. Call the police, will you? Call them, and I will 
have you arrested for trying to fight a woman. I ought to 
have you arrested for robbery. If ever there was robbery it 
is that which takes from a man the money belonging to his 
family without giving anything in return. Yes, you do give 
something in return, but what ? You rob a man of his strength, 
his health, his character, his money ; yes, you rob him of his soul ! 
And for what ? That you may make a few paltry dollars by it. 

Alfred. Woman, I will not hear such language in my place. 
Leave ; I will have nothing to do with you. 

Annie Nothing? Yes, indeed. You have robbed me of 
nearly all that I had. I had a husband ; good, kind, true, lov- 
ing, gentle, and all that a woman's heart asks for. What is 
he now ? A man whom even his nearest relatives despise ; a 
wreck of himself, a disgrace to his wife, a shame to all who 
know him. His manhood is gone ; his self-respect is gone, 
and that which to a woman is dearer than even life, his love 






Playing Saloon. 81 

to his wife is gone. Saloon-keeper, you have robbed me of 
my all in this life, and unless something more than has yet 
been tried succeed in saving him, you have robbed me of my 
husband in the life to come. The Bible says, " What God hath 
joined together let not man put asunder "; but you have sepa- 
rated us. You have done more than even death can do ; you 
have separated us for eternity. .Oh, I am wild ; I am almost 
mad when I see what drink has done for him. I could almost 
wish for an eternity to curse it. 

Alfred. Woman, this is horrible ! You must leave this 
place ! I can't endure it ! Go, I say, go ! 

Bessie {stepping forward between ANNIE and Alf). No, 
she must not go without her husband. That woman still loves 
what he was, if not what he is. Let her go ; she may save 
him. Will you doom her to lose her husband for eternity ? Is 
that what your business is for ? 

Alfred. Wife, this is my business, and you are not to inter- 
fere. You take charge of the house, and I will of my business. 
You are ready enough to spend the money I make from it. So, 
after all, we are partners, and you have no right to find fault 
with the work. 

Bessie. Partners ? Yes, we were. I have spent what you 
made, but because I never, until now, thought of the evil of 
your work. If we are partners, then I will take my part of the 
work. I am no longer a silent partner. 

Delia (to Ed). Ed, will you come home with me to-night? 
It is so lonely without you, and I am hungry ; I have not eaten 
a mouthful of food to-day. 

Edward. How is that? You gave me my breakfast before 
I went to work, and a good dinner to take along. 

Delia. Yes, but it was all there was in the house ; and there 
is nothing for to-morrow. All the money is used. 

Edward. What ! money all gone ? How is that ? 

Delia. You remember that you did not give me any last 
week, and only four dollars the week before. You said that 
you wanted to use what you had last week. 
6 



82 Playing Saloon, 

Edward. Well, all is gone now, and I have not a penny left. 
I thought you had plenty, so I spent it. I am sorry. 

Delia. No matter now, Eddie. If you will only come home 
with me I will try to borrow coal and food to-morrow from 
some of the neighbors, until you can give me more money. 

Edward. To tell the truth, I have not worked this week 
at all. It was so cold out and so nice and warm here, that I 
thought I would just stay where I was comfortable. But, 
Delia, the neighbors will not lend any more ; you have bor- 
rowed so often already. 

Delia. Then I will go out and beg, if you will only promise 
to come home with me and not come here again. Oh, it is 
awful to beg, but — yes, I will, if you will only come away from 
this place. 

Bessie. No, my good woman, you shall not beg. If any 
one is to beg, I and my husband are the ones. (Taking mock 
money from the table drawer.) Here, take this and buy food 
and coal. When this is used up come for more. As long as 
my husband sells and takes the money that should go for 
food, fuel, and clothing, I will use the money he gets for feed- 
ing and caring for his victims. He took advantage of your 
husband's weakness, and took his money without giving a fair 
return. He says that we are partners, and I see that it is so. 
He makes drunkards, and it is my duty to care for the inno- 
cent wives and children of his victims. 

Alfred. See here, boys and girls ; let's stop this. I can't 
stand it any longer. It is just awful to be a saloon-keeper, if 
one must think of what I have been thinking for the last half 
hour. I am glad that it is only play and make-believe ; but it is 
too awful for play. I never thought of it as I do now. I never 
wanted to go into the business, yet it seemed such an easy one 
that I was ready to think well of it if nothing else turned up 
before I became a man. But my ! I would rather go to State's 
prison for life than sell liquor. You girls have taught me a 
lesson ; I won't forget it. But how did you happen to think 
of all what you said ? 



Gaining Pleasure from Others Pain. 83 

Annie. I have seen women act as I did, and heard them 
talk so, too. I don't wonder that a woman is almost crazy 
when she sees her husband ruined by drink. 

Carrie. And I have seen poor Mrs. Smith go after her hus- 
band and beg him to come home. I have heard her children 
beg her to go for papa. I have heard them cry for food be- 
fore they went to bed, and there was nothing for them. 

Delia. 1 pity the drunkard's wife ; I, too, have seen more 
than I want to feel for myself. 

David. They all are to be pitied, drunkards as well as their 
families. 

Bennie. But, Dave, you are a temperance man ; why did 
you stand by and let the liquor-seller have his way, without 
your saying anything against it ? 

David. Oh, I forgot to say that I am a political temperance 
man. I belong to a political party ; that is, I was playing that. 
Such men talk temperance and expect others to act it. 1 was 
one of them. 



GAINING PLEASURE FROM 
OTHERS' PAIN. 

Characters : Helen and Minnie. 

Helen. What made you pull my cat's tail this morning, 
Minnie ? It is cruel to abuse dumb animals. 

Minnie. I did not abuse old Kit. Just pulling her tail a 
little is not abuse. Of course she did not like it, but I did ; 
and as I had the advantage I took it. 

H. I don't think it ladylike or honorable to take advan- 
tage of anything in that way ; surely it was not to take ad- 
vantage of a dumb creature. 

M. Do you suppose that hurt her so much, Helen ? Wh) r , 
she did not think of it a minute after I let her go. Cats have 



84 Gaining Pleasure from Others Pain. 

not so .much feeling ; they are only spiteful and ready to 
avenge the least liberty taken with them. 

H. Yet you have no right to cause even a cat pain. We 
have no right to take pleasure or gain anything from the pain 
and suffering of others. 

M. Do you mean to say, Helen, that we have no right to 
gain anything from the sufferings of others ? Perhaps I 
should ask if we have no right to cause pain and suffering to 
others in order that we may get pleasure or gain from it ? 

H. Yes ; I think that it is wrong for us to give others un- 
necessary pain in order that we may reap benefit from their 
suffering. 

M. Does that rule apply to all cases ? 

H. As far as I know it. does ; but why do you ask ? 

M. Oh, I was only thinking : that is all. 

H. What were you thinking about ? 

M. Do you mean that it is wrong for me to take pleasure 
in anything that has caused another unnecessary pain ? 

H. Yes, I do. We have no right to enjoy what has been 
purchased at the cost of another's needless suffering. 

M. Helen, where did you get that fine sealskin cloak that 
you wear, and your other fine things ? 

H. Get them ? Where should I ? My father bought them, 
and with money he earned at his business. 

M. What is his business ? 

H. What a question ! You know as well as I do, Minnie 
Brown. He keeps a wholesale store. 

M. He sells liquor, does he not, among other things ? 

H. Yes, I think so ; but I don't ask about his business. He 
sells groceries, I know that. 

M. Yes; and liquor. I am not sure, but have good reason 
to think that he makes a great deal of his money by the sale 
of liquor. Many people buy that liquor and drink it ; drink- 
ing brings suffering and a vast deal of unnecessary sorrow 
and pain to themselves and families. The money that bought 
your fine dress was gained at the cost of suffering and pain to 



Gai?ting Pleasure from Others Pain. 85 . 



many. That suffering was unnecessary ; the liquor did them 
no good, but much harm. Your dress cost others a great deal 
of pain. Have you a right to it, then, according to your own 
rule ? 

H. Oh, Minnie, why do you talk so ? I don't want to see 
others suffer ; nor is it my fault that they will drink : I 
have nothing to do with my father's business. I ask no ques- 
tions. I am his daughter, and it is his duty to support me. 
He does so, and I am thankful that he is able to do it. 

M. Even if at the cost of pain and suffering to many 
others. 

H. Minnie, you are cruel. 

M. No, I am only applying your rule. You began by 
lecturing me for what you call cruelty and abuse of dumb 
animals. I only wish to show that there is danger of being 
cruel in other ways than the one I took. I did not think that 
I was abusing the cat. Since you spoke of it I see that it 
was, to say the least, not kind to old Kit. I mean to be more 
careful not to hurt her again. But, Helen, which is the worst, 
to take pleasure in the pain of a dumb animal, or from that 
which causes a human being suffering ? 

H. I know what you mean, Minnie ; and I wish that you 
would not ask me such questions. I don't want to have peo- 
ple drink. If it were in my power I would destroy every 
drop of the wretched liquor ; but what can I do ? People 
will drink: my father is in the business ; and I cannot see 
why he should not sell as well as others, since men w T ill buy 
and drink. 

M. So people w r ill pull cats' tails ; and why should not I, 
if they will be pulled anyway, have some of the fun ? 

H. Minnie, if you let the cat alone it will escape that 
pain : it is not so with liquor-selling. If my father does not 
sell, those who want it will go elsewhere and buy. He does 
not create the evil, he merely takes advantage of it after it 
exists. 

M. Oh, I did not create the cat, I only pulled her tail after 



86 Gaining Pleasure from Others Pain. 

God had made her. By my pulling her tail she learned to 
keep out of the reach of strangers ; so, it was a sort of mercy 
to the cat. But every drink men get does not teach them to 
get out of the way of the seller; it only draws them more 
closely to him and the drink. 

H. But how can I help what my father does ? 

M. I suppose that you cannot help it : I was not speaking 
of that ; I only meant to say that if it be wrong to gain pleas- 
ure from the pain of one, it was wrong to gain pleasure from 
the pain of another. 

H. Would you have me refuse to wear anything my father 
buys ? I must, then, be without clothing and starve. 

M. No, Helen, I would not say that ; but I would say that 
it does not seem right for you to dress in the finest of cloth- 
ing when you know that it was purchased at the price of no 
small amount of suffering on the part of others, and many of 
them innocent, too. 

H. But what can I do? It has troubled me a great deal, 
though I have never spoken about it. 

M. I would decline to wear costly dresses, and give my 
father the reason. It would have an effect on him. He has 
become so accustomed to his business that he hardly thinks 
of its evil side. If he saw how you felt, and that you were 
willing to make a sacrifice because of your feeWngs, he could 
not help thinking. Men who deal in liquor see others who 
are opposed to their business take all their opposition out in 
talk, and soon believe that it is only meant for talk. Sacrific- 
ing for one's belief is one of the best ways to show that it is 
sincere. 

H. Well, I'll see what I can do to show I am sincere. 






Making Calls. 87 

MAKING CALLS. 

Characters: Emma, Lillie, Sadie, and Mabel. 



Emma. O, girls, I am tired of playing with dolls. Let us 
play something else. 

Li lie. So I say. % 

Sadie. I'll tell you, girls : let's play we are married ladies, 
and go calling as they do in the city at Auntie's. 

Mabel. Oh, yes ; that would be fun. Let us try it : Emma, 
you be Mrs. Smith, and we will be the ladies who call. 

E. Will you call all together ? 

M. No. We will come one at a time, and we will do as 
Mrs. Brown, Mrs. Jones, and Mrs. Robinson do at Auntie's. 

L. Who will come first ? Mabel, you know how. You 
come, then Sadie, and I last. 

M. Well, I will. Now let us go out. {All three go out, 
leaving Emma alone?) 

E. I am not just sure how those ladies did at Auntie's. I. 
did not like them ; as some of them did not say what they 
believed. I don't like to tell stories. {Enter Mabel.) 

M. Good-afternoon, my dear Mrs. Smith. How do you 
do ? I am so glad to see you. I was almost dying to meet 
you. Only this morning I told my husband that I must call. 
I am glad that you are well. 

E. Thank you; I am. Be seated. Why did not you. 
bring Annie along ? 

M. To tell you the truth, Mrs. Smith, I did bring her ; but 
as Mrs. Jones and her hateful daughter Ida were out calling, 
I did not care to have Annie meet Ida, so I told her to stop 
at grandma's. What children Mrs. Jones has. I would not 
have mine like hers for the world. But there comes Mrs. 
Jones up the walk now to call here. Don't tell her what I 
said. {Enter Sadie.) 

S. My dear Mrs. Smith, I am delighted to find you home. 



88 Making Calls. 

I was afraid you would be out. O, my dear Mrs. Brown, are 
you here ? How delightful to meet my two dearest friends 
together. 

E. I am glad so see you, Mrs. Jones. Why did not Ida 
come with you ? 

S. Ida ! Oh, she stopped to make a call on her way. 
Dear girl, if she had known that she would have met her 
-great friend Mrs. Brown here, she would have certainly come 
with me. 

M. Ida is a sweet girl, and how tastily she dresses ; like 
her mother, as I told Annie. I wish that Annie would copy 
after her. I would like to have Annie more in Ida's com- 
pany, Mrs. Jones. 

E. Have you seen Mrs. Robinson lately, ladies ? I have 
heard that her husband is quite ill. 

M. Ill ? I think not. He was probably drunk — the sot. 
My husband says that he drinks fearfully, and that he is likely 
to fail in business. 

S. I would not be surprised if he did, and I would not be 
astonished to hear even worse things of Mr. Robinson. 

E. I am sorry. But do you think that such reports about 
him are. true ? He always seemed a pleasant man. 

M. I have no doubt that he is nearly bankrupt. Mrs. Rob- 
inson is fearfully extravagant in her house as well as in dress. 

S. I would not be surprised to hear that he had run away 
as a defaulter. 

E. Oh, I hope not. But, ladies, here comes Mrs. Robin- 
son herself. {Enter Lillie.) 

f L. How do you do, Mrs. Smith ? And here are my dear 
friends, Mrs. Brown and Mrs. Jones. {Kissing the?n.) How 
glad I am to see you, and to see you together here with my 
dear Mrs. Smith. 

S. and M. Not less delighted than we are. 

E. Mrs. Robinson, I am glad to see you. How is your 
husband ? I heard that he was sick. 

L. Thank you, he is better. He had a bad attack ol 






Making Calls. 89 



neuralgia, but is much improved now. He is greatly over- 
worked, and I am sorry to say that the doctor has ordered 
him to give up business for a while and travel. 

E. I am sorry to hear that, but hope he will soon be re- 
stored. 

S. Of course he will take the advice. He should. He 
looks as if he needed rest. He seems overworked. But it is 
too bad to give up his business. 

L. Yes, since it is so prosperous, too. 

M. Poor, dear man. How we will miss him. He is always 
the life of every gathering in our society. You have a good 
husband, Mrs. Robinson. We almost envy you. 

L. Thank you. I do think him a good man, but I know 
others perhaps as good. 

M. Ladies, I must go. {Kissing them all.) Do come and 
see me, Mrs. Robinson. You hardly ever call any more. 
You must not forsake your best friends. And, Mrs. Jones, 
you will call soon again, will you not, and bring Ida ? Annie 
will be delighted to see her. Mrs. Smith, I have had a de- 
lightful call. I always have in your cosy home. {Goes out.) 

S. She has gone at last. What a hollow-hearted woman ! 

L. How horridly she dresses. I don't wonder that her 
husband spends so much of his time away from home. Is it 
true that he drinks ? 

E. Drinks ? Impossible. He is too fine a man. 

S. I have heard that he indulges quite freely at times. 
No wonder : his wife, with her affected ways, horrid tastes, 
and hollow-heartedness, is enough to drive any one to drink. 
Did }^ou ever hear that Mrs. Brown takes opium ? 

L. Just like her. She looks enough like it. She is a 
hateful woman, anyway. 

E. O, girls, this is too bad for play. It is awful to talk so 
about each other. 

S. Oh, why do you stop the play, Emma ? Let us go on. 

E. No, I can't play so any longer; and if you talk so I will 
stop and go away. 



90 Making Calls, 

L. Well, then we will stop. (Enter Mabel.) 

M. Why do you stop ? Wasn't it fun ? 

E. No. It is wicked for us to talk so about each other. 

M. If it is wicked for us, I think it must be for grown 
people. 

E. Ladies do not usually talk so in the city, do they, 
Mabel ? 

M. No ; not always, but sometimes they do. I thought i 
was wicked at first, but soon forgot all about that, and then u 
seemed fun. 

S. I wonder if we will do so when we are ladies ? 

E. I hope not. I do not wish to be a lady if I must pre- 
tend to love those whom 1 do not like, and must talk of peo- 
ple behind their backs so very different from what I tell them 
to their faces. 

M. You will soon get used to hearing it, and then will do 
it yourself. 

E. I hope that I may never get used to it. It is sinful. 
The Bible forbids us to slander or backbite our neighbors. 
Even if the Bible said nothing about it, we ought to have 
sense enough to treat others as we wish to be treated. 

L. I wonder that those who allow others to speak in their 
company against their friends, never think that people who 
talk against one absent one will against another. 

S. That is so ; if they talk against you to me, they will 
against me when you are with them. 

M. O, girls, the ladies in the city don't do it because they 
dislike those against whom they speak, but because they 
cannot think of anything else to say. I noticed that those 
ladies who said unkind things about the absent, did not know 
how to talk anything else. They were not so bad ; they only 
did not know how to be good. 



Pleading with a Saloon-Keeper. 91 

PLEADING WITH A SALOON 
KEEPER. 

Characters: Annie, Nellie, Winnie, Johnnie, and Mr. 
Burns, the saloon-keeper. 

Annie. Why don't you want to play with us, Winnie ? Are 
you sick ? 

Winnie. No ; but I feel so bad, and I am hungry, too. We 
had to go to bed last night without any supper, and we have 
had nothing to eat to-day. We are all so hungry at home 
and mamma felt so bad that I did not want to stay in the 
house and see her cry. 

Nellie. Does your papa drink ? Mine does, and he came 
home so cross last night that we were all afraid of him ; and 
he is such a good papa, too. I wish he would not drink. 

W. Yes ; my papa drinks, and he brought home no money 
last night. He told mamma that Mr. Burns, who keeps the 
saloon on the corner, had all his money ; so we will have noth- 
ing to eat for a week, unless we can get money or food some- 
where. It is so hard to see poor mamma rock the cradle 
and say nothing ; but the tears fall on the baby's face, and we 
know that she feels so sorry. She don't scold papa ; maybe 
she thinks it's no use ; but mamma can't scold much, she is 
so good. 

N. My papa goes to Mr. Burns' saloon, too, and spends a 
good deal of money there, mamma says; but we dn't mind 
that so much as we do to have him come home so cross. We 
have plenty to eat. 

Johnnie. 1 wish I was a man ; wouldn't I just make them 
saloon-keepers move on ! They just make lots of boys and 
girls have a hard time. They take the money their fathers 
and brothers earn and make them drunk for it, and that's all 
they get. Then the folks at home have to suffer for it, I'd 
just like to settle with old Burns and a lot of them fellers. 



92 Pleading with a Saloon-Keeper, 

A. Don't talk in that way, Johnnie ; mamma would not like 
it. Girls, let us go and ask Mr. Burns if he will please not 
sell any liquor to your fathers. Will you go ? I will go with 
you and ask him first. I am not afraid. I know his Mamie; 
she goes to the same select school that I do. 

J. You can go, but he won't listen ; you girls don't know 
such men as well as we do. If you go I'll go along to see that 
he don't hurt you. I am not a man and not very big, but I 
can fight awful when I've got to. But say, you needn't go, 
he's coming this way. Now talk to him all you want to, and 
I'll see that he treats you well. 

A. (to Mr. Burns, entering). Please, sir, do you keep the 
saloon on the corner ? 

Mr. Burns. Yes ; what do you want ? Do you want to get 
a pail of beer ? Go around and get it. There is a man behind 
the bar. 

A. No, sir ; but we want to ask if you will please not sell 
any beer or whiskey to Nellie's and Winnie's fathers. 

B. Why should not I sell if they pay for it ? 

N. Please, sir, my papa, when he drinks beer and other 
things, comes home so cross that we are all afraid of him. 
Mamma is afraid of him, too. 

B. I can't help that ; he must not be cross, that is all. I 
don't make him so. 

N. But the beer makes him so. Oh, if you would not sell 
him any, my papa would be as nice and good as he used to be. 
Then he took us up in his arms and kissed us when he came 
home, and brought us lots of nice things ; but he don't bring 
anything home now. 

B. Is that all you have to say? If it is, I must go on. I 
have no time to spend on children's nonsense. 

W. Please, sir, don't go yet. My papa told mamma last 
night when he came home that you took all his money. We had 
to go to bed without supper, and we haven't had anything to 
eat to-day. We are all so hungry at our house ! Won't you 
please give me some of the money you took from papa ? You 



Pleading with a Saloon-Keeper. 93 

can keep some of it, if you only will give part to me. It will 
make mamma so glad ; she is more hungry than we, for she 
didn't eat dinner yesterday. She gave it all to us, and said that 
she would wait for supper, till papa came home. 

B. I did not take your father's money ; he bought whiskey 
of me, and, like an honest man, paid for it. If he paid out all 
his money, that is his and not my business. I always give 
people what they ask for if I have it, and ask no questions. 
If a man don't know. his business, it is not my affair to look 
after his concerns. 

W. But he said that you took all, so that he could not 
bring any home. He once told us that he worked to get us 
food and clothing, and coal for fire. If you took the money 
that he earned to buy such things for us and gave him whis- 
key for it, was it right ? You get his money ; the money that 
he worked for, that he might give to us, and we must starve. 

B. Child, who told you to say those things? 

W. Nobody, sir. No one knows that we talk this to you. 

B. Well, I don't want children to talk to me in that way ; 
I don't like to hear it. 

A. We don't want to talk so, either; nor would we, if you 
did not sell liquor to their fathers. They would stop drink- 
ing if you did not sell. 

B. If I don't sell, somebody else will. 

A. But you will not ; and then no one will blarne you. If 
you stop, others may, too. 

B. No, indeed ! You don't know saloon-keepers. They 
would only be too glad if I stop ; it would give them the more 
chance to sell. But I must sell ; it is the way I make my living. 

N. But it takes away our living ; at least we must suffer, 
and Winnie's folks are almost starving because you sell their 
papa liquor. Is it right that you should make your living by 
making others starve? Will God let you do it? 

B. God, child ! What have I to do about God ? I don't 
believe there is a God. 

A. What ! Don't you believe there is a God ? Don't you 



94 Pleading with a Saloon-Keeper. 

know Him, then ? Don't you go to Sunday-school and church, 
where we learn about Him ? for there is a God. He sees what 
people do in the world, and some day He means to call them 
to Him and talk to them about it. What will you say then ? 

B. I tell you that I don't believe there is a God. 

J. But that don't make it out that there is no God. Boys 
sometimes don't believe that there is a dog in an orchard, 
either; but that don't keep the dog from biting 'em when 
they go in to hook fruit. Then boys believe in a dog, when 
he is after them. When God gets after you, you'll believe in 
Him, too. It won't help to say there is no God when there is. 

B. See here, youngster, I won't be talked to in this way, so 
keep your mouth shut. If I want to sell beer and whiskey I 
will do it, and it is none of you business, either. 

J. I don't want to be saucy, Mr. Burns, but it don't seem 
to me that it's just right to sell liquor and take away all the 
money a man has for his family at home. I'd feel bad, too, if 
I was in Winnie's place 

B. Boy, it is my business to sell, and a man must attend 
to his business, and sell to all who will buy. If I do what I 
think is right, that's the end of it. 

J. I don't believe that's the end of it. It ain't reasonable 
for some folks to do as they want to in this world, no matter 
how much it hurts others. You will find something's wrong 
by and by, and that you took hold of the wrong end. 

B. Never you fear, my boy ; I am able to take care of my- 
self. 

J. So Sam Burr said when he went to steal Mr. Billings' 
cherries. Sam wasn't afraid of dog nor nothing, so he said ; 
but Mr. Billings got sight of him, and seek'd the dog on him. 
All Sam could do was to get up a tree. There he stayed and 
stayed, and he had to beg and promise awful before Mr. Bill- 
ings would call off the dog. You may say now what you will 
do, but it will be some different when God gets you up a tree. 
Folks talk very big about what they will do to the dog when 
he is on the other side of the fence ; but when you and he are 



The Dead Kitten. 95 

in the same field, and making for the fence, he going twice as 
fast as you, you won't feel like saying anything; you'll only 
make for the fence. But, Mr. Burns, there won't be any fence 
to go to when God gets after you. 

B. Boy, who taught you to talk in that way? 

J. Nobody. Any boy that goes to Sunday-school knows 
that without learning. I know it 'cause it is so. 

B. I must go, children; I'll think about what you have 
said. 

W. Won't you give me some of the money that my papa 
left in your saloon ? They are all so hungry at home. 

B. I can't now, but I will send over something for you. 
{Goes out.) 

A. Johnnie, you should not talk so to him. 

J. Could not help it, Annie. If he didn't know such things, 
it was time that he learned, even if no one but a boy told him. 
Folks think that boys don't know nothing. No God ? Well, 
a man that says that, either don't know what he talks, or else 
he is what the Bible calls him, a fool. Why, every boy who 
listens to what folks tell him, and thinks for himself, knows 
that there is a God. Yes, and He is a God who watches fclks 
close, too, you may be sure of that. I wouldn't want to be a 
saloon-keeper and have His eye on me, I tell you, now. 



THE DEAD KITTEN. 

Characters : Mamie, a very smatt girt ; and SUSIE, a target 

girl. 

Susie. Where is your little white kitten, Mamie ? 
Mamie. Sh^ is dead. 
S. Dead ! When did she die ? 

M. Yesterday mornings seventeen minutes after ten. I 
looked. 



96 The Dead Kitten. 

S. What made her die ? 

M. I don't know. I think she just got tired of living, and 
then just went and died. 

S. Don't you feel sorry? I think that I wou.d cry like 
everything if it were my kittie. 

M. Yes, I feel sorry ; but if kittie did not want to live any 
longer, how could I help it ? 

S. I don't know. What will you do for a kittie now ? Will 
you get another one ? 

M. No, I think not ; I liked this one too well. 

S. But this one is gone now. 

M. Yes, I know ; but I'll have her again. 

S. Have her again ! Why, Mamie, what do you mean ? 
She is dead, and how can you ever get her again ? 

M. My kittie was good, and she has gone to Heaven. 

S. Kittie gone to Heaven ! Kitties don't go to Heaven at 
all, Mamie. 

M. Yes, they do, too ; if they are good. Aunt Mattie told 
me so; and my kittie was as good as could be. She would 
not steal ; she would not scratch ; she was not cross ; and she 
minded me. And when I told her about good kitties that 
had died, and said that she must be good, too, she just looked 
at me as though she wanted to say, " I mean to be good "; 
and she was. 

S. Yes, she was a nice, good kittie ; and I am sorry that 
she is dead. 

M. I am, too ; and I wish that I had not told her that good 
kitties die. Maybe she would not have gone and died. 

S. But, Mamie, kitties don't go to Heaven. 

M. How do you know ? You have not been there. 

S. Well, I know that kitties don't go to Heaven. 

M. Where do ihey go, then, when they die ? 

S. I don't know. I guess that they don't go anywhere. 

M. Don't go anywhere ! Where do they stay, then ? 

S. They do not stay. When kitties die they just die, and 
that is the last of them. 



The Dead Kitten. 97 

M. Do you mean that they die all up ? 

S. Yes ; kitties have no souls. 

M. What have they got, then ? What is it that makes 
them like us, and hate dogs and boys and things ? 

S, I don't know. I think that it is something in their 
bodies that goes out when they die, just as a lamp goes out 
and leaves all dark. 

M. And cannot I ever see my kittie again ? 

S. No, Mamie, I do not think that you ever will. 

M. Oh, dear; it is too bad ! But I suppose that it is too 
late to begin crying now. What made Aunt Mattie tell me 
a story ? 

S. Perhaps she did it to keep you from feeling sorry. 

M. Which is the worst, I wonder: for me to be sorry for 
my kittie now, or for Aunt Mattie to be sorry for telling me 
a story by and by ? Aunt Mattie is not good. 

S. Do not say so, Mamie ; she did not mean to do wrong. 

M. But is it not wrong to tell a story ? And didn't she 
know that she was telling me a story ? 

S. She did not mean to tell you a story ; she did not 
think about that. She only wanted to keep you from feeling 
too bad. 

M. Yet it was a story. Susie, I wish that big folks would 
not tell us things that are not true. They think that because 
we are little we don't know any better ; but we find out. I 
wonder if when we tell stories who taught us. 

S. But, Mamie, they do not tell the stories to deceive us ; 
they do it to keep us from feeling very sorry. 

M. That may be ; but it makes us more sorry by and by. 
I can stand the truth just as well as big folks, and I don't 
want to have them tell me now things that, by and by, I will 
know are not so — {turning to the audience) : do you hear that, 
bis; folks ? 



98 Going to Church. 

GOING TO CHURCH. 

Characters : Henry, Samuel, and John. 

Henry. Hello, Sam ! Where are you going this fine day ? 

Samuel. Going to church. Won't you and John go along? 

H. I go to church? No, sir; not if I can help it. The 
outside church suits me better than the inside one. I guess 
that's the way John feels, too. Ain't it so, John ? 

John. That's it, Hen. No prosy sermon of an hour and a 
half, and a sleepy prayer of another half hour, and then dull 
singing and reading to make up another hour. No, sir ; no 
church for me. 

S. Nor for me, either, of that kind ; but I don't go to that 
kind of church. Mine is as different from yours as can be. 
Come along and see for yourselves. 

H. Not to-day, Sam. The fact is I am too tired to go to 
church ; so, John and I thought we'd take a walk. 

S. How far are you going ? 

J. Oh, we thought that we would go to Brennan's for an 
airing, and for some rest. 

S. What, Brennan's Half-Way House ? That's a saloon, 
isn't it ? You will not find much rest there. I hope that you 
will not find something worse than rest at Brennan's. It is 
not the best place for a workingman of a Sunday. 

J. That's true ; but what's a fellow to do when all the sa- 
loans in town are shut ? 

S. Do ? Why, stay away from the place for drink. It is 
a poor way to spend Sunday, this going to a saloon. I wish 
that all of them were closed ; not only in our town, but in 
the whole country. 

H. Now, see here, John, you are too ready not only to 
give a man away, but to add considerable to the gift. We 
are not going for a drink, Sam, but to enjoy the air and to 
rest. I don't say but that we shall take a drink or two before 
we come back, by way of clearing the dust out of our throats. 



Going to Church. 99 

S. So you are going two miles out and two miles back for 
a rest ; yet you are too tired to walk half a dozen blocks to a 
church where you will have a good cushioned seat, hear some 
good singing and good preaching, and then return home. 
Come, men, be honest ; does that look reasonable ? Too 
tired to go to church, yet able to take a four-mile walk ? 

H. Oh, Sam, you know that ain't just it. Sunday is a long 
day if one stays at home moping. So I never enjoy it, unless 
I take a walk or something. 

S. I am afraid that it is the something as much as the 
walk, John, that calls you out. Now, excuse me for asking 
the question, but, honestly, I would like to know ; are you 
much rested on Monday after such walks to Brennan's? 

J. I'll tell you the truth, Sam. No; I'm just tired Mon- 
day morning, and yet I'm glad that the day has come. 

H. That's somewhat the way with me ; Monday is a hard 
day. I feel sort of dragged out. I don't believe that it is 
the beer or the walk, but it's something. 

S. Well, men, I don't take much of a walk on Sunday, and 
I don't go out into the country at all. I go to church twice a 
day, and after dinner take a nap ; then read awhile, and then, 
maybe, go out for a walk of a few blocks. When I go to bed, 
which is a little earlier than other nights, I feel first-ra^e, 
just tired enough for sleep, and the next morning I am resied 
and all right. You had better try my way of spending Sun- 
day, and go to church. 

K. No, Sam; no church for me. Nature is my church 
and preacher ; and I hear better sermons and far better sing- 
ing, too, than )^ou. The birds are my choir, and the music 
is grand, I tell you. You had better go to my church. 

S. 1 am afraid that your church costs too much, Henry. 

H. Costs too much ? How? There is no charge. Yours 
-is the one that charges ; mine is free ! 

S. Why, to get your sermon you must walk four miles ; 
then must study it all out yourself ; that is too much for a 
tired man. I want my sermon got ready for me, as I want 



too Going to Church. 

my dinner cooked by another, when I am tired. Then your 
music would not suit me. 

H. Why not? It is beautiful, and the voices are sweeter 
than any in your church. 

S. That may be, but you cannot sing with your choir ; if 
you tried you would not be able to follow the tune. Then 
there is one thing that you do not have in your church ; you 
have no one to pray for you. 

J. We can pray for ourselves. 

S. So can 1 without going out to any church ; but I want 
to hear some one ask God for the things I need : it helps me 
see what they are, and makes me want them, too. That is 
just what my minister does for me. I tell you it does a man 
good to hear it. 

H. A church made by hands may do very well for those 
who like it ; but give me one in which to worship my Maker 
that was made by God Himself. 

S. That might be a good sort of church were it not more 
than half of the time closed for repairs. 

J. Closed for repairs ? What do you mean ? 

S. Why, it is not fit to sit in during the winter ; and in 
spring and fall it is very often too wet or too cold. To sit in 
it for half an hour might give you your death of cold. Then 
in summer, when the sun is hot, it has no roof over the largest 
part to shelter from the heat. If it rain, you have not any- 
thing to keep off the wet. It seems to me that you could 
choose a better church. 

J. Well, we were going to one, Sam. 

S. Not Brennan's, I hope ? 

H. Pshaw, John, I. wish that you would let Brennan's 
alone. We are not going out for that. I get a great amount 
of good going out into the country. It gives me better ideas, 
and I come home improved. I learn new lessons each time 
I go out, 

S. So do I at my church. But, Henry, excuse me for say- 
ing it ; I leain a lesson that you do not get in your church. I 



Who is Green f I or 

learn that I am a sinner, and that Jesus is a Saviour for me. 
Nature tells you neither about sins nor a Saviour ; and if you 
follow the teachings of your church, you will land at last in 
some other place than Heaven. I told you that your church 
costs too much. Henry, it will in the end cost you all that 
you are worth ; it will cost your soul. But for this life only 
your church, as is evident from what you will admit, leads 
you into temptations such as my church never presents to 
me. There are no saloons in my church. I wish that you 
men would try it. 

J. Sam is right, Hen, and I won't go into the country to- 
day. 



WHO IS GREEN? 

Characters: Susan, Mary, Jane, Will, and Harry. 

Mary. Do city people live on farms as we in the country 
do, Susie ? 

Susan. Why, no, you greeny. There are no farms at all 
in the city ; nothing but streets, houses, and parks. What 
strange questions you ask. I sometimes have to laugh to hear 
and see how green country people are. We can tell in the 
city those from the country as soon as we see them. 

Jane. That is the way in the country with city people ; 
they are awful green, and don't seem to know anything. 
Will Clawson told Harry the other day that one of their city 
boarders asked if the big hens laid the big eggs and the 
chickens the small ones : another asked which cows gave the 
sweet and which the sour milk. Then, too, one asked if flour 
was made from potatoes, or corn, or what. He said that 
potatoes were so mealy when good ripe that he thought flour 
could be made from them. 

S. Oh, I suppose that country people know more about 



102 Who is Green? 

things grown in the country ; but they know little about 
polite society. They can talk of butter, eggs, hens, and 
pigs ; but who in pt lite society wants to know about such 
things ? 

M. No doubt there are many good things that we ought 
to know, yet we in the country get along quite well without 
them. 

S. But what would you do if in city society ? 

J. What would we do if we were in the penitentiary ? 
Why, we don't mean to go there. The country is good 
enough for us. 

S. But country people are so awkward ; I should think 
that you would wish to know better how to act in company. 

J. If I could not act better than some city people I would 
not want to act at all. Honesty and decency are better than 
politeness. 

S. People in the city live nicer than those do who are in 
the country. We have nicer things, and prettier houses, and 
everything better. City people do not have to work as long 
and hard as those living outside. 

J. Yes, I have heard Uncle Harry say that lots of people 
in the city lived without work. He said that they lived by 
their wits, like foxes, and weasels, and hawks, and such. He 
said that pickpockets, beggars, rogues, and burglars are plenty 
in the city. 

M. We have rogues and beggars in the country too, Jennie. 

J. Yes ; but they come from the city, most of them. 

S. I know that there are many bad people in the city ; so 
there are many good ones. But when it comes to bad men 
and bad business, I don't think that country people can say 
much. Who puts poor fruit at the bottom and good on the 
top ? Who sells a three-peck basket for a bushel ? Who 
waters milk when they send it to the city? Who colors 
winter-butter and sells it for grass-butter ? Who sells fowls a 
dozen years old for spring-chickens ? Who sells stale eggs for 
fresh ? Country people. 



Who is Green ? 103 

M. Sue is right : we are no better in the country than we 
should be ; but because we happen to know little of city ways, 
it is hardly fair to call us green. For the same reason we may 
call city people green. 

S. But you know that it is so easy to sell you in the city. 

J. And not to sell you in the country, I suppose ? 

S. No doubt we too can be sold, but I believe that city 
people are much more shrewd than those brought up outside. 
We have so many more ways of learning , we see so much 
more than you do. The city has ever so many advantages 
that the country cannot have. 

J. Yes, I have heard that before. Our hired man, Mike, 
told us that a long time ago. When he wants " a good time," 
as he calls it, he goes to the city. When he comes back, 
which he rarely does in less than a week, he has lost all his 
money and most ol his clothes : sometimes he has hardly 
anything more than one ragged suit to wear. He says that 
the city has many advantages that he cannot find in the 
country. 

M. Mike's idea of advantages seems to be plenty of liquor- 
saloons, where he may stay all night if he wishes, and drink 
as long as he has anything to spend. 

S, Oh, there are many saloons, of course, but there are 
very many churches too. 

J. About one church to a dozen saloons, I guess. 

S. I don't know about that. I have nothing to do with 
saloons, but I do know about the churches, and horse-cars, 
and parks, and ever so many other things. I would not live 
all the year in the country for anything. There come those 
horrid boys ; come, let us go : they will be up to some of their 
mischief if they see us here. {Girls leave to the right, as 
Will and Harry enter from the left.) 

Will. Say, Harry, that city girl at our house is as green 
as grass, but she thinks that she is as smart as we are. Let's 
have some fun with her. 

Harry. All right ; I'm in for fun. But what shall we do? 



104 Who is Green f 

W. She has tried to tell me big stories about things in the 
city, and I just let her think that I took it all in as true. I 
read the papers and know something about the city as well 
as she ; so I let her talk. I want to see how big stories city 
folks can tell. She thinks that she is selling me ; I want her 
to know that I can sell her. Let us begin on a small scale at 
first, and when she is trained up to take in a big sell we'll 
have one ready. 

H. Yes ; but what do you mean to try first ? 

W. Only this : you know that old scarecrow on the hill ? 
Well, I was bringing that down when you came. That girl 
has gone up the road with Mary and Jennie for a walk. 
They'll be back soon. I want to have the old fellow ready 
alongside the path when they come back. We'll just hide 
away and see the fun. It will scare that city girl some, and 
get her ready for what will come later in the course of 
lectures. 

H. It is hardly fair to scare her; besides, Mary and Jennie 
will see the old fellow and tell her what it is. 

W. No, they won't either. Jennie will just enjoy it. Mary 
w r on't say anything, but will look on. Jennie would like to see 
that girl taken down a little, so would Mary. They don't like 
the way that girl tries to sell me. It's just fair to pay her 
back. 

H. Well, all right. I'll help. But where is the old scare- 
crow ? 

W. Right out here. I was bringing him as you came ; 

and I thought I'd talk to you first before I told you about 

fhim". Let's go and bring him here. {Boys step out and return 

ijziti nn old suit of clothes stuffed with straw, which they try to 

make stand near the front of the stage?) 

H. He won't stand. How shall we fix him up ? 

W. Here, put this stick {any stick will do) behind him. 
Now, that will do. We must have his side turned towards 
the girls. He has not much face to show. He is a modest 
old fallow. 



Who is Green ? 105 

H. Let's put out his arms as though he were ready to take 
some one in them. 

W. That's so ; we'll try it. No : wait. I'll fix up one as 
if he was ready to strike, in this way {fixes up one arm as if for 
a blow)\ there, that will do. Don't hit your boss, old man. 
You need not fight ; all you've got to do is to scare that city 
girl a little. She thinks she is smart ; let her see that an 
old scarecrow, who has survived the wars of one year's ele- 
ments, is more of a man than she is. 

H. They are coming, Will. Let's hide. 

W. Wait a minute ; the arm won't stay. I'll fasten it with 
a string around the old fellow's neck. There ; that will do. 
No hurry, Harry, the girls are some way off. {Fastens the arm 
with a string?) Now come, let us hide ; the old fellow is all 
right. (Boys leave to the left as girls enter on the right?) 

S. (talking, and not at first noticing the scarecrow). I 
don't like the country ; everything is so quiet : there is no 
fun, no excitement, no — (Looking towards the scarecrow?) O, 
girls ! See that awful man ! He is coming towards us ! He 
is read}' to strike ! Let us run back ! 

J. Are you afraid of that old fellow ? We are not : he is 
harmless. 

S- (pulling the girls back). Oh ! Come, girls, let us go 
back ! That horrid man is coming towards us ! Please come 
with me ! I am afraid of him ! 

M. He will not hurt you, Sue. He is as harmless as can be. 

S. Do you know him ? 

J. Know him ? Of course we do. He has been on our 
farm for a year or more. He is quiet and good. 

S. Is he crazy? He acts so. Come, let us go back. 

M. Go up to him. He will not hurt you. Go and speak 
to him. 

S. I would rather not : he looks so awful, and I am afraid 
that he would not treat a stranger kindly. Come, let us go 
back and take another way to the house. It is getting dark, 
and I don't want to be out late. It is not good for my lungs. 



106 Marrying a Daughter 

M. Let us go up to the old man and speak to him first. 
(The two girls, at a motion from Jennie, take hold of Sv SAN' S 
arms, and try to pull her up to the scarecrow?) There, you see 
that he will not hurt you. 

S. Why, it is not an old man at all. It is only old clothes 
stuffed with straw. 

J. Is this the first time that you found that out ? 

S. What do you keep that horrid old thing for ? §. 

J. To scare crows and other wise people. 

H. and W. {coming forward). Who is green? 

S. You horrid boys. 

W. Which is best, an old man stuffed with straw or a boy 
stuffed with city stories too big for him to take in ? 

S. Oh ! You wretch ! I could pound you. 

W. I'll excuse you for this time. But if an old straw man 
can frighten you so, I wonder what a real scarer of the coun- 
try can do ? Yet some city people think that they are not 
green. 



MARRYING A DAUGHTER. 

Characters : Mr. and Mrs. Rodney, their daughter Annie, 
and John Stevens. (In Two Scenes?) 

SCENE I. 

Mr. Rodney. Wife, I have thought it is about time that 
we think of a husband for our daughter Annie. She is a 
young lady beyond twenty, and we will want to see her set- 
tled in life before we grow old. 

Mrs. Rodney. We need give ourselves no anxiety regard- 
ing her. Let young ladies alone for choosing husbands. 
Annie will have one in due time, no doubt. 

Mr. R. But many a young lady fails to get married and 
must remain single. We see several of our friends in that 



Marrying a Daughter. ioj 

situation. Of all things I don't want our daughter to be an 
old maid. 

Mrs. R. Give yourself no uneasiness ; I am sure that An- 
nie will take time, and she will make a choice in the end. 

Mr. R. But I feel that we should make a choice for her. 
She is yet young, and cannot know what kind of man she 
will need. We should choose for, or at least advise her whom 
to choose. She may do as so many young people before her 
have done, make a bad choice and then must suffer for it all 
her life. I believe in helping her out of the difficulty. 

Mrs. R. You may be right. Whom would you advise or 
choose for her ? 

Mr. R. 1 have thought of the matter a great deal, and 
have several in mind. There is young Bray ; he is a fine man 
and likely to do well in the world. He has started in busi- 
ness and has a good backing ; besides, his father is well-to-do, 
in fact is rich ; and we want Annie to marry well-off. How 
would he do ? 

Mrs. R. What, Dolph Bray? He may be a good business 
man, but he will be nothing else. He will make his wife 
work her life out to get money, and he keep it. He has no 
more feeling than an iron fence. 

Mr. R. Say wooden fence, my dear ; an iron fence is a little 
too hard and cold even for Dolph Bray. But I have not set 
my mind on him ; indeed, I have no fancy for him, except 
that I am sure he will be rich some day. He will never let a 
wife want for lack of his ability to give. He probably will lack 
the will. We will let him stand aside. How will Abram Wil- 
lis do? He is well-to-do, and will inherit a fortune in a few 
years. It is true he has not much business, nor is he inclined J 
to do much, but why should he ? He -has enough to support 
him now, and will soon be independently rich. 

; ; Jrs. R. Abe Willis, indeed ! Why, Mr. Rodney, he is lit- 
tle better than a fool. He does not know about anything 
but dress and dogs. No, indeed ; never with my consent 
shall Annie marry such a brainless fellow. If money is the 



io8 Marrying a Daughter. 

object, then why not take Henry Walker? He has money 
and brains too ; more than that, he is as pleasant and sociable 
a man as one could wish. And let me tell you, husband, he 
would not be so hard to get. He has called on Annie often, 
and of late has shown her no little attention. I think that 
he will suit you as he does me ; and I hope before long An- 
nie will be pleased with him. I am sorry to say that she 
seems to have taken a dislike to him for some reason or 
other of late. It is probably only a woman's fancy, to pass 
off in a few weeks, I hope. 

Mr. R. Henry Walker ! Yes, I have thought of him, and 
have noticed that he called quite often of late ; but so many 
call to see Annie that I gave it little thought. He is a bright 
young man, and quite sociable; then he has money, and is 
doing a good business in his profession. He is said to be one 
of the most promising of all our young lawyers. I don't 
know anything against him. If you like him I am willing to 
regard him with exceptional favor. But are you sure that he 
does not care more for Annie's money than for herself ? To us 
she is as attractive as an angel ; she may not be so to every one. 
There is one thing that may be said against young Walker, 
but it is hardly worth mentioning. He is a little wild, and 
takes a glass of wine now and then more than is for his good. 
But of course he will get over that in due time. 

Mrs. R. Since you are willing to regard him as a suitor 
for our daughter's hand and heart, let me tell you something. 
He called a few days ago when you were away on business at 
New Orleans, and told his intentions. He called to see you, 
but as you were absent he made his business known to me. 
He would have called to see you before this had he not been 
away himself on business. He wishes our Annie, and I tell 
you, husband, he completely won me to his cause. If he can 
plead as well at the bar, he must be a successful lawyer. I 
spoke to Annie about him, but she would say almost nothing. 
I cannot quite understand the girl. I wish she would have 
less to do with that John Stevens. He is nothing but a poor 



Marrying a Daughter. 109 

clerk ; good enough, I suppose, as far as character goes, but 
not worth a dollar ; and of his family, if he ever had parents 
of whom he knows, we know absolutely nothing. Annie met 
him at a Sunday-school teachers' meeting; both teach in the 
same Mission-school ; and since, he has been coming here 
more and more frequently, until I believe that she is half in 
love with him. 

Mr. R. John Stevens ; who is he ? I have never heard of, 
much less seen him. A poor clerk, you say? And coming 
here to visit our daughter, intending to marry her ? 

Mrs. R. I don't know about the marrying, but I know 
about the visiting. Yes, he is poor ; and of his family, as I 
have said, I know nothing, nor does Annie, as far as I can 
learn. It is my belief that he is an adventurer trying to win 
her fortune. For that reason I favor Henry Walker, whom 
we know, all the more. If we let this matter between Annie 
and this unknown run on much longer, it will be beyond our 
power to stop it. I have wanted to talk to you before, but 
since your return you have been so busy that I waited. 

Mr. R. Well, well, we must attend to this at once. How 
shall we arrange the matter ? 1 will favor Henry Walker with 
all my heart ; I wish he would call. I will give him a favor- 
able answer. But we must have a talk with Annie, and as 
soon as possible. This matter with the young man Stevens 
must be stopped, as you say, at once. But I don't want to 
say anything to him, a stranger, until he says something to 
me about it. He may turn around and say to me : " Who 
asked for your daughter ? I don't want her, nor you either." 

Mrs. R. I imagine that he will call on Annie to-night, 
from what she said. 

SCENE II. 

John Stevens. Annie, we must have this matter settled to- 
night. 1 cannot call here as your accepted lover without 
asking the permission of your father and mother. 

Annie. But, John, I want you to wait for a little while un- 



no Marrying a Daughter. 

til I can bring father and mother to regard you with more 
favor. You know that they think much of their position and 
wealth, and are anxious that I choose a man of wealth as my 
husband. My mother wishes me to marry Henry Walker, 
the young lawyer whom you know. 

J. Annie, let me say that I will not stand between you 
and the wishes of your parents. I am poor, and in social 
standing beneath you ; but in this country no young man 
with energy and character is prevented rising to the highest 
social position, as he may gain the greatest amount of wealth. 
I expect to rise, but I may fail. What if I should fail, and, 
having married you, should always keep you down and in 
poverty? Would not your parents blame themselves for 
allowing me to take you, you for accepting me, and most of 
all me for aspiring to take you, and then for pulling you 
down ? No, Annie, I love you too well to mar your future 
for the sake of my own self. 

A. John, I am a woman and of age. I am able to choose 
for myself, and have done so. By that choice I mean to 
abide. 

J. Annie, I need not repeat that I wish only you and not 
your money. Some day I shall have, I believe, a fortune and 
a place in the world that none will despise ; but few will be- 
lieve that I am not after your money. I know that you ac- 
cept me for what I am. I felt that you were honest and true 
from the first. During the years we taught as strangers in 
that Mission-school I was watching you, studying you, and at 
last was almost tempted to worship you. Never would I have 
presumed to speak of marrying you had I not been thrown 
so unintentionally in your society, and become acquainted 
with you in the teachers' meeting, started a few months ago. 

A. John, I too was watching, studying, and, yes, learning 
to love the young stranger who so faithfully taught those 
wild boys, and then won them to a better life. But the story 
need not be told. I have not told my parents what you are 
to me, nor how determined 1 am not to marry Henry Walker, 



Marrying a Daughter. ill 

or any one else whom they may select, if they choose at all , 
but 1 have intended speaking to them, and gradually gaining 
them to look upon you with favor. Knowing them so much 
better than you, I think that the way I suggest is the better ; 
yet I may be wrong. I am willing to do as you say. I will, 
if you wish, call them in now, and you may speak as you 
choose ; but I warn you that, let come what may, I cling to 
you. 

J. I will be glad if we may have a full understanding to- 
night, whatever such understanding may be. 

A. Then I will call them. {Goes out and soon returns with 
Mr. and Mrs. Rodney.) Father, mother: this is my friend, 
John Stevens ; Mr. Stevens, this is my father and mother. 
(They shake hands.) 

J. Mr. and Mrs. Rodney, at my request your daughter has 
asked you to meet me here. I am placed in an embarrassing 
position. I will not add to it, nor to your discomfort, by a 
long recital as preliminary to a request that I have to make. 
You may know that I have for some time called, with her 
consent, on your daughter. I have been bold enough to ad- 
mire and love her. I have told her my feelings, and have 
been told that they are reciprocated. I now ask if you will 
allow me to continue to call on your daughter at your home, 
with the understanding that you may watch me as closety as 
you will, and make all inquiries regarding myself and charac- 
ter; then, if satisfied as to my honorable character, that you 
will consent to my marrying your daughter. 

Mr. R. Sir, this is to me entirely unexpected. We know 
nothing of your character, your position, your relatives; in 
fact you are to me almost a total stranger, whose name even 
was, until lately, unknown to me. Annie is our only child, 
and we do not propose to give her to one of whom we know 
nothing. Annie has wealth and position; have you either? 

J. Neither. 

Mr. R. And do you propose that she is to give both tc 
you ? What do you give in return ? 



112 Marrying a Daughter, 

J. I propose giving a faithful heart, a strong arm, and all 
that a good Providence will bestow on me in return for hard, 
earnest work. I am poor ; I have no social position, except 
what an honest, faithful workingman is sure to possess ; but 
wealth and position in this country are for all who will try for 
them. I am trying, and hope — yes, sir, feel sure I shall succeed. 

Mr. R. That is what all young men say. 

J. And many obtain, after diligent effort. 

Mr. R. That may be ; but you can give no assurance of 
obtaining. Let me say, sir, that we have other hopes for our 
daughter. It is our purpose that she marry another and a 
more wealthy man, one who has made sure already of money 
and position. I see no reason, from anything you have said, why 
we should change our purpose. Is that answer satisfactory ? 

A. Whatever it may be to Mr. Stevens, father, it is not to 
me. I am not to be disposed of as you will without my wish 
being consulted. It is for my happiness, not yours and mother's 
only ; and it is but just that I have a voice in the choice. My 
choice is John Stevens, and only him. 

Mr. R. Annie, be not hasty ; you have not thought this mat- 
ter over as your parents have, nor are you as experienced and 
able to judge as they are. We don't wish to force you against 
your will when you have considered all sides of the question. 
You have, I fear, not considered fully the step you propose 
taking. 

Mrs. R. My daughter, you are yet young and liable to misun- 
derstand your own feelings ; what you may wish to-day may be 
exactly what you will a few years hence turn from with disgust. 
Be not too hasty, but listen to the advice of your parents. 

Mr. R. Annie, we love you, and have given the proof by 
more than a score of years of tender care and faithful atten- 
tion to all of your wants. Is it not likely that we will advise 
wisely now ? Well, we see two futures before you, one as the 
wife of a poor clerk, living in poverty and the humblest 
position all your life, sadly bewailing the passion that in youth 
prompted you to choose such a lot. On the other hand, we 



Marrying a Daughter. 113 

see you the wife of a man of wealth, position, and influence, 
moving in the best society, loved and honored by all, wield- 
ing an influence that is mighty for the good of those around 
you. Now, which shall we advise and urge you to take ? 
Both are before you, and you may have either. 

A. Father, what do you mean ? I recognize neither picture. 

Mr. R. I mean, Annie, that Henry Walker would make you 
his wife as well as this Mr. Stevens. Henry Walker I know. 
He is a wealthy young lawyer of great promise. Mr. Stevens 
is but a poor clerk. 

A. Henry Walker, father, I will never marry. I know him, 
too. He may be wealthy and talented, and have a high 
position and great promise, but he has one thing more, Henry 
Walker drinks wine. He becomes intoxicated. Between two 
men, the one poor and doomed to poverty all his life, and the 
other rich, honored, great, talented, and yet a drinking man 
who becomes intoxicated, I would choose the poor man. 
Never will I throw away my life-happiness on a man who may 
at any time yield to the influence of strong drink, and become 
a drunkard. If there be any woman's life having more awful 
uncertainties in it than has the wife of a drunkard, then I 
have yet to learn about that life. Marry a man who would be 
likely to become a drunkard, father ? Never ! I am willing 
to be poor and humble and suffering, as the wife of a true 
man ; but I will not knowingly unite myself to a probable 
drunkard. Life is too precious to me to be thrown away thus. 

Mrs. R. So you will not marry Henry Walker? 

A. Mother, if need be, I would die for you and father, but 
I would not marry Henry Walker for you. 1 have not been 
a wilful child, nor do I intend being wilful now, but in one 
thing I mean to have my own way. 

Mr. R. But, Annie, think; Mr. Stevens, while, perhaps, a 
good and worthy man, has no position, no wealth ; and we do 
not know what his family was. Take time, my daughter, to 
consider all before you decide finally. 

A. I have taken time, father; I have taken years to think 



114 Marrying a Daughter. 

and study, and have learned all it is necessary to know. Mr. 
Stevens is not ashamed of his family, nor need he be. As for 
wealth and position, how did you get yours, father? How do 
very many in our country gain them ? 

Mr. R. I gained mine by patient industry and faithful work. 

A. So does Mr. Stevens expect to gain his. He is now 
where you were at his age. All he asks is to have the chance 
that you had. He will, I am sure, do the rest. 

Mr. R. May I ask about your family, Mr. Stevens ? 

J. Certainly, sir, or anything else connected with my his- 
tory. My father was John Stevens, killed in the late rebel- 
lion. He was Colonel in the Union army. My mother died 
soon after my father was killed, and I was left to the care of 
an uncle, who brought me up on a farm. His health failing, 
he was forced to sell his farm and move to the city. I am 
now living with him. He is an invalid. 

A. Why not tell that you are supporting him from your 
salary ? 

J. That is simply returning what in my time of need he 
loaned to me. I am not sure, Mr. and Mrs. Rodney, that I 
should add to what I have said already. This I may say, I am 
willing to have my history subjected to the closest inspection, 
hoping, however, that full charity will be accorded to the mis- 
chief of boyhood ; and until you are satisfied that I am a true 
and honest man, I am willing to be as a stranger to your home 
and daughter. 

A. No, John, I am satisfied already ; and, as I am the most 
deeply concerned, I insist that my decision shall have full 
weight. Father may inquire all he chooses, but I have decided. 

Mr. R. Well, well, daughter, I seem to have nothing to say. 
But I confess that you are far more reasonable than I was; 
and I will abide by your decision, though not my choice. I 
never looked at the matter in the light you have put it. You 
are right. I would not have you marry a drunkard. Never ! 
Never ! Take her, Stevens, if you will. May your lives be as 
happy and prosperous as ours. 



Young Mens Calls. 115 

YOUNG MEN'S CALLS. 

Characters: Mary, Jennie, Carrie, and Alice. 

Mary. Jennie, I'd like to know why your brother Dan 
comes to our house so often ? 

Jennie.- Our Dan ? Why, how often does he come ? 

M. He comes every week, and of late sometimes twice a 
week. I don't see any need of his coming so often. Every 
time he comes our Annie has to make a fire in the parlor, and 
then she has to stay up late to entertain him ; for he don't 
seem to know when to go home. 

Carrie. Ah ; Mary, you don't know anything. Dan comes 
to see Annie. 

M. Comes to see Annie ! Can't he see her without com- 
ing to our house so often ? She goes to church, Sunday- 
school, and prayer-meeting ; he could see her there. His 
memory must be very poor if he cannot remember from one 
week to another how she looks. 

C. Mary, you don't understand. Dan is waiting on Annie. 

M. Waiting on her? I guess it is the other way, and she 
is waiting on him ; for some evenings she keeps looking and 
waiting until he comes ; and then she waits on him until 
eleven or twelve o'clock sometimes before he goes home. 
How he does stick. 

Alice. 1 think it is too bad ; for every time he comes he 
wants to see Annie only ; and the rest of us cannot go into 
the parlor at all. 

J Does Dan drive you out ? If he does, I will speak to 
him. 

A. No. He talks and laughs with us, when we can slip 
into the parlor, but mother most always calls us out when 
young r^en are there. I don't know why. If Annie and Nel- 
lie and Maggie may see them, why cannot we little girls ? 



n6 Young Mens Calls, 

C. You are too small yet. Maybe the young men don't 
want you. 

A. Don't ? Yes, they do, for they give us candy and lots 
of nice things. 

M. Sometimes they give us candy if we will go and ask 
father or mother something they wish to know. 

C. Do your father and mother let you go back again ? 

A. No. They always keep us in the sitting-room. But 
if the young men did not want us they would not give us 
presents. 

C. They pay you to get you out of the room, that's all. 

M. Alice, I believe that is just it; and that is the reason 
why Dan gave me that nice little book the other day. If he 
don't want to see me, I don't want him to come to our house. 
Jennie, I wish that you would tell your father to keep him 
home. 

J. Well, Mary, I can speak to him about it. 

C. Pshaw, Jennie, you may as well tell the girls why Dan 
comes here. 

J Mary and Alice, I will tell you a little story : 

There were once two sisters who had a brother, an only 
one, whom they loved very much. As he grew up to be a 
man he went into bad company and learned to be bad like 
the rest. His sisters and father and mother were greatly 
troubled, and tried to lead him back to the way of right; but 
it seemed to no purpose, their brother and son was going to 
ruin. One day these girls told a young lady friend how they 
were troubled about their brother, and asked her to help save 
iiim. Other young ladies had turned away from him, and he 
seemed to feel that no. one cared for him. So this young 
lady, whenever she met, had a kind word for him. By and 
by he called to see her. She then had a long talk with him. 
She told him how anxious his sisters were that he should be 
a good man, and asked him if he would not try for their 
sake, and. for the sake of all his friends, to live a better life. 

C. You may as well tell the girls that this young man had 



Young Mens Calls. 117 

learned to drink liquor, and was rapidly becoming a drunk- 
ard, Jennie. 

J. Yes; and that made people despise him. Except his 
sisters and parents, none seemed to care for him, and he felt 
it. When this young lady spoke so kindly to him, and after- 
wards, when she urged him to begin to live a better life, he 
determined to try. It was a hard struggle to keep the prom- 
ise he made that time when he called, nor did he keep it al- 
ways. More than once he was tempted and became drunk, 
but this young lady remained his friend; nor did she cease 
urging him to try again and to struggle on. At last he con- 
quered. He became a man of whom his friends are proud. 
He gave up drinking liquor not only, but every bad habit, and 
became a faithful Christian. For more than two years has 
he been living a different life ; and he believes, as do his sis- 
ters and parents, that it is all owing to that young lady. 
There, you have the story, and Carrie can tell the rest. 

C. That young man, girls, was our brother Dan, and the 
young lady your sister Annie. Some day we hope that An- 
nie will be our sister, and Dan your brother. 

M. Oh, is Dan to be our brother? I'm so glad. 

A. So am I ; he'll be a nice brother, just as nice as if ) 
had picked him out. 

M. He can come to our house every night if he wants to 



JUVENILE TEMPERANCE SDPPLIES. 

The National Temperance Society has published a variety oi 
Lesson Helps, Responsive Services, etc., especially adapted for the 
use of Sunday-schools, Bands of Hope, and Juvenile Organizations, 
in teaching temperance. We give below a list of some of these : 
Boys' and Girls' Temperance Text-Book. i2mo, 64 pages. 

By Rev. H. L. Reade. . . * 7. ...... . , % 

It consists of questions and answers on the effects of alcohol, with scientific author 
ities. 

Blackboard Temperance Lessons, Nos. 1 and 2. Illustra- 
ted with sketches and designs. Ey Mrs. W. F. Crafts. i6mo, 40 pp. Each „ 1 

The Temperance School. By Julia Colman. 36 pages. 05 

The Band of Hope Songster. By J. N. Stearns. 64 pages.. .15 
The Primary Temperance Catechism. By Julia Colman. 

Illustrated. 32 pages •©«? 

Catechism on AlcohoL (English and German). By Julia 

Colman. 36 pages. OA 

Ripples of Song. Price 15 cents, paper covers ; per 100, $12. 

Boards, 20 cents ; per 100, $18. Price per dozen, post-paid, paper covers, 

$1.60 ; board covers m 2.20 

A collection of sixty-four pages of Temperance Hymns and Songs, designed foi 
children and youth in Sabbath-schools, Bands of Hope, etc. 

The Temperance Speaker. By J. N. Stearns. 288 pages. . .50 
Readings and Recitations, Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5. 9 6 PP« 

By Miss L. Penney. Each..... 25 

Juvenile Temperance Reciter, Nos. 1 and 2. 64 pages. 

By Miss L. Penney. Each #10 

The Sunday-School Concert. i2mo, 224 pages. Cloth, 

50 cents ; paper . .25 

Consisting of twenty-six concert exercises and dialogues. 

Choral and Responsive Service. By Mrs. M. J. Hackett. 

4-page large octavo sheet, per hundred, postage paid .. .50 

Temperance Responsive Exercises,*Nos. 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 

and 8. 4 pages, i2mo size, postage 5 cents per xoo. Per hundred ,30 

New Illuminated Temperance Cards. 

No. 4.— The Lily and Rose Series. This is a series of six 

beautiful designs with mottoes. Per hundred, only .50 

Ho. 5. — The M Dare n Series. Four designs and four mottoes. 

Assorted, per hundred 1 »00 

No. 6. — Floral Cards. With beautiful motto verses. As- , 

sorted, per hundred J.0C * 

No. 7. —Wine Series. With Bible Texts. Assorted, per hun- 
dred , ..... 1.00 

Address J. N, STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 

&H Reade §tre«t. ]*ew York. 



HELPS FOR INSTRUCTORS. 

THE NATIONAL TEMPERANCE SOCIETY publish the following tracts 
books, and pamphlets, all of which will be found especially useful in work among th« 
young, and as a help to teachers. 

Primary Leaflets. These are a two-page trace, sin- 
gle leaf style, with cut, printed in clear, large type, and easy 
words, adapted for the smaller children. There are 13 number* 
price $1.50 per 1,000, 20 cents postage per 1,000, if sent by mail 

Children's Illustrated Tracts. These are Com- 

page tracts, for children and youth, each illustrated with a 
choice wood engraving, and furnished at the rate of $2 per 1,000. 
There are 132 numbers in all. When sent by mail, postage at the 
rate of 24 cents per 1,000 must accompany the order. One set. .30 

Juvenile Temperance Manual for Teach- 

ers. 12010, 157 pp. By Miss Julia Colman, Cloth 60 cents 
paper .25 

This is a new handbook intended to assist teachers and all others who train the 
children for total abstinence. It provides a series of lessons, illustrated with exper- 
fiments, objects, blackboard exercises, and problems, on alcohol, its origin, its nature, 
Us effects, how to get rid of it ; on tobacco and on profanity, with Scripture ticket 
lessons. All illustrating and making attractive the 

Catect&isni on Alcohol. By Miss Julia Colman. 
36 pages 05 

This is the great text-book for the juvenile work, having reached and issue of 
175,000. 

Alcohol: Its Nature and Effects- i8mo. 

392 pp. By Charles A. Story, M. D 75 

This is a thoroughly scientific work, yet written in a fresh, vigorous, and popular 
vie, in language that the masses can understand. It consists o? ten lectures care- 



This is a thoroughly scientific work, yet written in a fresh, vigorous, and popular 
style, in language that the masses can understand. It consists of ten lectures a 
fully prepared, and is a new work by one amply competent to present the subject. 



Alcohol and Science ; or, Alcohol, What it Is 
and What it Does. A $500 Prize Essay, i2mo, 366 pp. By 
William Hargreaves, M.D 1.50 

This is a thoroughly scientific work, containing all the latest authorities, and 
showing what alcohol is and what it^oes to the human system. It treats of alcohol 
as food and as poison, its effects upon disease and upon progeny, as well as its action 

upon the stomach, liver, and the kidneys. 

Alcohol and Hygiene. An Elementary Lesson- 
Book for Schools. i2mo, 234 pp. By Julia Colman, author of 
M The Catechism on Alcohol," "Juvenile Temperance Manual," 
etc. Paper 30 cents ; cloth 60 

This is a series of thirty-four short lessons on alcohol and it effects upon the hu- 
man system, with questions appropriate for public and private schools, families, etc. 

Readings on Beer. Arranged by Miss Julia Colman 
to make adult study easy 8vo, 48 pp 05 

Readings on Cider, Prepared by Miss Julia Col- 
man, for adult Temperance Society meetings. 8vo, 48 pp.. .05 

Facts for Firemen. By Julia Colman „os 

Sent by mail, on receipt of price. Address 

J. tf. STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 

58 Rbade Street, New York. 



BOOK OF DIALOGUES. 



No. 1. 



BY 

REV. A. J. DAVIS, 

AUTHOR OF " RESCUE THE DRUNKARD," AND OTHER DIALOGUES. 



NEW YORK: 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House, 
No. 58 Reade Street. 

1886. 



jVew Temperance Dialogues, 

firs National Temperance Society has just published three new dti 
berries, written by H. Elliott McBride : 

1. A Boy's Rehearsal, for eight boys, in which each one rehearses 
his speech selected for a public meeting. This is one of the best tem- 
perance dialogues for boys ever published. 18mo, 20 pages, 1 cents; 
single copies, per dozen $1*0-1- 

2. A Talk on Temperance, for two boys, an earnest effort for rel 
cruits for a public meeting. 18mo, 7 pages, 6 cents single copies: per 
dozen ........ «60 

iH. A Bitter Dose, two characters, man and wife. The drunkard cured 
I j by a u bitter dose." 18mo, 14 pages, 1 cents single copies; per dozen. 1 ,00 

The following has also Recently been Published. 

4. Trial of John Barleycorn, by a Jury of twelve men, with At- 
torney-General, Counsel, Sheriffs, and fifteen Witnesses, 10 cent* 
each ; per dozen 1*00 

jTltc following: are Excellent Dialogues pre- 
viously published. 

| Marry No Man if He Drinks. 10 cents Per doaen 1,00 

'! Which will You Choose? By Miss M.D.Chellis. 15 cents. " 1.50 

; Wine as a fflediejne. 10 cents ** 1.00 

The Stumbling Jjlock. 10 cents ** 1.00 

Shall I Jllarry a Moderate Drinker ? 10 cents ** 1.00 

i Trial and Condemnation of Judas Woemafrer. 

15 cents *• 1.50 

j ; The First Glass ; or, The Power of Woman's Influence, and ) « « Rn 

ilThe Young Teetotaler; or, Saved at Last. 15 cents for both, j" i.ou 

, Reel aimed ; or, The Danger of Moderate Drinking. 10 cents. " 1 .00 

The Alcohol Fiend. Scents M .60 

coisrcKirr exercises. 

The Two Ways. By George Thaver. 5 cents each Per doien .60 

The Cup of Heath. By Rev. W. F. Crafts. 5 cents each.. ** .60 

The Two Wines. By T. R. Thompson. 5 cents each " .60 

The Alcohol Fiend. By Rev. W. F. Crafts. 5 cents each. " .60 

Temperance Exercise. By Edward Clark. 18mo " .60 

Scripture Testimony. By T. R. Thompson* 5 cts. each.. M .60 
Heware of Strong ©rink. By Mrs. E, H. Thompson. 5cts. 

each " .60 

The Contrast. By T. R. Thompson. 3 cents each " .36 

The Fruits Thereof. By T. R. Thompson. 5 cents each. " .60 

Scripture Characters* By T. R. Thompson. 5 cents each. " .60 

AMONG THE CHILDREN. 
The Catechism on Alcohol. By Miss Julia Colman. 86 

pages " .60 

Band of Hope Manual. 36 pages M #60 

ihromo Pledge Card. Containing either the single or 

triple pledge per hundred 2.00 

Pocket Pledge-Book. With space for 80 names .10 

The Temperance Speaker. By J. N. Stearns. 288 pages 7* 

I'he National Temperance Orator. By Miss L. Penney. 12mo, 

288 pages 1.00 

rt 1 1> pies of Song. 64 pages. Single copies, 15 cents .... per hundred 1 3.00 
\ new collection of Temperance Hymns and Songs, designed for 
children and youth in Sabbath-schools, Bands oi Hope, Juvenile 
Templars, Cadets of Temperance, etc. 
! Headings and Recitations, IVos. 1 and 2. 96 pages. By Miss I* 

Penney, ifiacb «•! 

Addrewi J N STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 

68 Meade Street. New York. 



188$ 



The Youth's Temperance Banner. 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House publish a beautifully- 
illustrated foui-page Monthly Paper for Children and Youth, Sabbath-schools, and 
Juvenile Temperance Organizations. Each number contains several choice en- 
gravings, a piece of music, and a great variety of articles from the pens of the best 
writers for children in America. 

Its object is to make the temperance work and education a part of the religious 
culture and training of the Sabbath-school and family-circle, that the children 
may be early taught to shun the intoxicating cup, and walk in the path of truth, 
soberness, and righteousness. 

The following are some of the writers for The Banner : Mrs. J. P. Ballard 
(Kruna), Mary D. Chellis, Mrs. Nellie H. Bradley, Rev. Wm. M. Thayer, Edward 
Carswell, Geo. W. Bungay, Miss A. L. Noble, Faye Huntington, Mrs. M. A. Holt, 
Hope Ledyard, Miss F. E. Willard, Miss Julia Colman, Mrs. J. E. McConaughy, 
Mrs. M. A. Dennison, Mrs. E. J. Richmond, Rev. S. B. S. Bissell, Rev. Alfred 
Taylor, Mrs. J. McNair Wright, Rev. E. A. Rand, Mrs. M. A. Kidder, etc. 

MONTHLY AND SEMI-MONTHLY. 

The Regular Monthly Edition will continue to be published as before, un- 
changed in character except for the better, and specially designed for Sunday- 
school distribution. A Semi-Monthly Edition will also be published for those 
who desire it. 

TERMS, IN ADVANCE, INCLUDING POSTAGE. 

MONTHLY EDITION. 

Single copy, one year $0 25 

One hundred copies to one address 12 00 

For any number of copies less than one hundred and over four, to one address, 
at the rate of 

12 cents per Year. 
SEMI-MONTHLY EDITION. 

Single copy, twice a month, one year $0 40 

One hundred copies, twice a month, to one address 24 00 

For any number of copies less than one hundred and over four, to one address, 
at the rate of 24 cents per year. 



The National Temperance Advocate. 

The National Temperance Society and Publication House publish a monthly 
paper devoted to the interests of the Temperance Reform, which contains articles 
upon every phase of the movement from the pens of some of the ablest writers in 
America, among whom are: T. L. Cuyler, D.D., Hon. S. D. Hastings, A. M. 
Powell, Rev. Peter Stryker, J. B. Dunn, D.D., Rev. Wm. M. Thayer, Mrs. E. J. 
Richmond, Ernest Gilmore, Mrs. J. McNair Wright, Geo. W. Bungay, Hon. Neal 
Dow, Mrs. F. M. Bradley, Mary Dwinell Chellis, Miss Julia Colman, Miss F. E. 
Willard, Mrs. J. P. Ballard, etc., etc. 

It also contains a history of the progress of the movement from month to month 
in all the States, which is of great value to every worker in the cause and to 
those who are in any way interested in the work, and no pains will be spared to 
make this full of the most valuable information to all classes in the community. 

Terms (cash in advance), including postage : One dollar per year for single 
copies ; ten copies to one address, $9; all over ten copies at 90 cents per copy. 

All orders should be addressed to 

J. N. STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 

58 Heade Street, New York. 



NEW TEMPERANCE PUBLICATIONS. 



The National Temperance Society have recently published the following 
valuable books and pamphlets, any of which will be sent, post-paid, on receipt 
of price : 

FOR SUNDAY-SCHOOL LIBRARIES. 

Miss Janet's Old House. By Annette L. Noble. I2mo, 428 pages. .$125 

The Spinning:- Wheel of Tamworth. By Rev. Wm. A. Smith. 12ino, 
206 pages 90 

Millerton People. By Faye Huntington. 12mo, 313 pages 1 00 

Profit and Loss. 12mo, 387 pages 1 25 

The Haunted Islands. 12mo, 383 pages 1 25 

How Billy Went Up in the World. 12mo, 396 pages 125 

Hannah : One of the Strong Women. 12nio, 290 pages 1 (0 

Save the Boys. 12mo, 350 pages 1 25 

Holly Sprays. 12mo, 128 pages 60 

Susy's Opinions. 12mo, 154 pages 60 

Competitive Workmen. 12mo, 272 pages 1 00 

MISCELLANEOUS PUBLICATIONS. 

The Temperance Evangel. 68 pages. By I). B. Towner and Rev. IS. W. 

Spencer. Paper covers, 25 cents ; per dozen 2 50 

Board covers, 30 cents ; per dozen 3 25 

A collection of new and popular music and words, suitable for Gospel Tem- 
perance meetings and general temperance work. Just the book for Temperance 
Camp-Meetings and Conventions, Society Meetings, etc. 

The Little Red Stocking: that Hung- at the Gate. By Faith Wynne. 
A charming Christmas story for the little folks. l2mo, 72 pages 10 

The House that Rum Built. By Rev. D wight Spencer. A poem after the 
style of "The House that Jack Built." Handsomely illustrated by designs 
from Edward Cars well. 12mo, 24 pages . 10 

The Sunday-School Concert. 12mo, 224 pages. Cloth, 50 ; paper 25 
Consisting of twenty-six Concert Exercises and Dialogues especially adapted 

for Sunday-school Concerts, etc. 

Prohibition does Prohibit; or, Prohibition not a Failure. By J. N. 
Stearns. 12mo, 96 pages 10 

Hig-h License : The Monopoly of Abomination. By T. De Witt 
Talmage, D.D. ; and The Delusion of High License, by Herrick Johnson, 

D.D. 12mo, 24 pages 10 

Cheap campaign edition, thin paper. Per hundred 4 00 

Beer and the Body. From the Toledo Blade, D. R. Locke (P. V. Nasby), 
editor. 12rao, 24 pages 5 

NEW ILLUMINATED TEMPERANCE CARDS. 

No. 4. The Lily and Rose Series. Prettiest and cheapest cards yet. 

Assorted in packages of 25 or 100. Per hundred, only 50 

This is a series of six beautiful designs of roses, lilies, and forget-me-nots, 

3^>x2 inches, with six different motto verses, adapted for wide distribution. 

No. 5. The " Dare " Series. Four designs and four mottoes, " Dare to do 
Right," etc., 4^x2% inches. Assorted, per hundred 1 00 

No. 6. New Floral Motto Cards. Four designs. 5x2>£ inches. As- 
sorted, per hundred ... ICO 

Any of the above Publications sent, post-paid, on receipt of price. Address 
J- N. STEARNS, Publishing Agent, 

58 READE STREET, NEW YORK 



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